I Like You a Latte {Completed}

36 | Losing the Fight

Beverly squeaked when the bullets slammed into the SUV's rear windshield, only partly aware of Quincy as he spoke over a police radio to another officer.

A shout of, "Down, Beverly!" snapped her from her thoughts, and she flattened herself against the backseat just as the rear windshield finally gave way, flinging glass everywhere when it shattered.

"Stay down," Quincy continued, looking into the rearview mirror before swerving dangerously, the tires squealing in protest the whole time. Beverly snuck a peek over the console, her eyes widening when she realized he'd spun them to face Dennis and Red straight on.

Speeding up as he charged the other, smaller car, Quincy used one hand to snatch a gun from his belt and began to fire back at them. The front windshield shattered as well, and Beverly covered her head with her hands, keeping her eyes shut tight and sending up a prayer for safety (or, at the very least, a quick death).

She started counting to distract herself from the firefight, and hopefully keep whatever was left in her stomach from making an appearance.

1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9—

"Damn it!" Quincy roared, just as something popped and the SUV fishtailed, spinning around in multiple circles, then slamming against another object and flipping over itself at least thrice before it finally came to a stop, leaving its occupants dangling upside-down from their seats.

Beverly blinked blearily, her poor head throbbing with every breath she pulled in. A wet substance dripped into her eyes and she dabbed at it, unsurprised when she saw her fingertips covered in blood.

"Quin'?" she croaked, trying in vain to spot him through the blood obscuring her vision.

There was a groan from up front, followed by, "I think I'm getting too old for this. You okay, Beverly?"

"Peachy." She answered, giggling to herself when she realized how ridiculous she must look, dangling upside-down and dripping in blood. "Ow."

"I bet," Quincy grunted, kicking the driver-side door to shove it open. "Let me cut you down, but I don't want—" he halted abruptly, before the sound of him scrambling from the car penetrated her ears.

More gunshots, and Beverly screamed, wiggling frantically in her seatbelt as she tried to get the stupid thing to release her. It was no use, though—it was jammed, and she couldn't get her weight off to release the pressure against it.

I'm going to die, she realized suddenly, the epiphany stealing her of breath. I'm going to die here, at the hands of two crazy psychos who are part of a drug ring that my roommate was involved in and is run by the CFO of my honorary uncle's company.

The sentence sounded like utter nonsense, even in her own mind, and she couldn't stop another hysterical giggle. After all, it was better to laugh than cry at this point, right?

She had nothing to lose, either way.

A pair of shoes crunched over the glass shards surrounding the totaled SUV, and Beverly's mind went haywire.

I do have something to lose, her heart protested urgently when the door next to her was heaved open, I haven't told Griffin that I forgive him for being stupid, or that I love him to bits; I need Francis to know that he was the best honorary uncle I've ever had; Cynthia has to learn that I'm so sorry for prying into her business, and I should've stayed out of it; Deb has to know this isn't her fault, not really; Alicia was a great friend to me, and I never told her that. I need to remind Abe and Felicity to be good kids, and I need Mom and Dad to know I love them, and I'm sorry for not calling enough.