Aria opened the doors to her balcony so she could hear the sounds of the city revving itself into a new day.
It was only eight into the morning and too chilly to sit outside, but by the look of the sun breaking through the clouds Glasgow was basking in the glory of an unusual Indian summer. She pulled her foldaway directors canvas chair close to the open doors and sat with her feet up a table and clutching a mug of freshly brewed coffee. The buzz of Charing Cross traffic was music to her ears.
It was good to be home.
In the beginning, when she had fled to Sarajevo in the wake of posts revelations about the UVF coke dealing, McGuire had suggested she sell her flat altogether. It was too risky to stay there, he had told her, but Aria had protested, if the scum bags were determined to g
