Page 85 of Stripped

"Thanks." Wraith unzipped her dance bag over his shoulder, putting them away when he noticed the notecard in one of the shoes. He picked it up. It was from Sokolov, with an Alasdair Gray print on the back. Mother and Daughter. Well, that explained who sent her mother the tickets. How long had she been hiding this information from him?

Sin and Kian were waiting for them in the car park. Dark clouds hid the moon, threatening rain. Wraith's lung seized in the cold night air, allowing no air in or out and he pounded his chest with his fist in frustration until he could breathe again. Alex stared over at him. Wraith held up his hands. "I'm fine," he said, getting into the passenger's seat of Alex's black Porsche.

"Use your goddamn inhaler," Alex said through gritted teeth, starting the car. "Fucking martyr, you'll do her no good if you injure yourself again."

"I said I'm fine." The engine purred to life and they followed the Mercedes the other men were in, away from the east end.

The drive was excruciatingly long, with several traffic accidents involving out of town visitors, turning the wrong way into oncoming traffic, littering the roads. At least thirty minutes passed before Wraith could finally make out the outline of Òran Mór in the distance.

"Have you been here before?" Alex asked.

"Aye. If they're here, they'll be in the auditorium in the balcony."

"Why do you say that?"

"Like I said, he likes to play with her emotions." Wraith scanned the surroundings, looking for any clues. As they turned into the car park, a black Land Rover with darkened windows was pulling out. Something in Wraith's chest tightened. "Turn the car around," he yelled, looking back.

"What the hell?"

"She's in that car. Turn around and follow it."

"How do you know?" Alex questioned, but he did as Wraith asked, making a U-turn and following the SUV on to the street.

"I just do." Doubt filled him. The feeling had been so strong for a second, but now it was fading.

"Call Gabriel," Alex said, pressing the phone button on his steering wheel.

"Where did you go?" Gabriel's voice said through the speaker.

"We're following a black Land Rover, number plate SK69 DTM. Have Dougie check it out."

"Yes, sir. Do you want us to follow you?"

"Dougie can track us on GPS. You check out Òran Mór and see if they have been there. If they've already left, then pick up our location." Alex hung up.

"You'd better be right," Alex said.

"I am." But he wasn't sure. The farther the car got away from them, the more he was afraid he was leading them on a wild goose chase.

* * *

Pim glanced back quickly at the sports car as it turned into the car park. Wraith. She knew he was in the car. He had come after her. The beating of her heart quickened. She didn't want to draw attention to the Porsche now following them, so she stared straight ahead. Fat drops of rain began to fall, splattering the windows and blurring the view as they inched along Great Western.

"Where are we going?" she asked as they stopped at another red light, resisting the urge to turn around and see if Wraith had caught up.

"It's a surprise. I'm taking you somewhere that speaks to my muse," he said. "I've had enough of your Alasdair Gray. He's fallen rather flat for me."

They came up to another red light. Sokolov made a fist, red creeping up his neck. "Get off this god damn street," he yelled at his driver. "We've gotten every fucking red light." His usual clipped English accent he tried so hard to use was giving way to his Russian.

"We're almost at the highway, sir," the driver replied.

Viktor was right, they had been stopped at every red light, and it sparked a small ray of hope in Pim. Gabriel, master of red lights. He wouldn't have that luxury for long.

They were only on the highway for a short amount of time before the driver exited on Trongate and drove into the heart of the city center. Buildings lined the road, their Victorian architecture stunning as pedestrians and cars navigated the grid system of streets. They pulled up in front of a five-story red brick building. They got out of the car and Sokolov grabbed her arm. "Don't think of trying to run," he whispered in her ear. "Or Hamish will die."

Two large glass windows flanked the front door. Above the first window, spelled out in lights, was Trongate 103, and above the second, painted in bright yellow, was the saying A Centre for Arts and Creativity. The door was locked. Sokolov inserted a key, opening it. The place was dark and looked deserted. He locked it behind himself and led her up a curved staircase, to the first floor and into what could only be called a performance gallery.

Pim blinked several times, hoping her eyes would adjust to the darkness. She could make out the shadows of large objects and structures around her. Sokolov walked her to the center of the room. Her shin hit a wooden object, as he sat her down on what felt like a bench. The air was heavy with expectancy. Something was going to happen; she could feel it in her bones. And then, as quiet a murmur, she heard it, the soft muffle of a child's cry. Her head turned, trying to locate where it had come from. "Hamish?" she cried out.

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