Читать книгу Suburban Secrets - Donna Birdsell - Страница 11

Friday, 5:58 p.m.

Roadkill

The asshole drove right past their meeting place.

According to the plan, as soon as Balboa arrived in Philly, he was supposed to drive straight to the gym and call from a pay phone. Shit. He was gonna screw them.

Pete had followed Balboa’s rented green Taurus all the way from the airport. Balboa’s own car, a cherry 1959 Buick, still sat in the VIP parking lot at the airport.

If Pete hadn’t suspected Balboa was turning on them and staked out the baggage claim, he’d never even have known the guy was back in town a day early.

He flipped open his cell phone. “Lou. He’s back.”

“No shit.”

“I followed him from the airport. He just passed the gym. I need you to go wait at his house. I doubt he’ll show up there, but you never know.”

“Right. I’m on it.”

Pete snapped the phone closed.

In front of him, the Taurus eased into the exit lane. It looked like Balboa was heading for City Avenue.

Pete jockeyed through four lanes of frantic expressway traffic but just missed the exit.

Damn.

When Pete caught up to him, that son of a bitch Nick Balboa was dead meat.