"When you gotta go, you gotta go," he muttered. The pounding returned. Mathew craned his neck and realized he was alone in a strange family's home with the only occupant in the bathroom. At the very least, he could ask what they wanted.
Mathew swung the door wide, and a short Hispanic man stood before him with dark eyes and black curly hair. His clothes were well-tailored—brown linen trousers with suspenders. The man assessed him back and pinched his face in disapproval. Obviously, he wasn't looking for Mathew.
"Can I help you?"
"I'm here to see someone. Is the man of the house here?"
"He's out back." Mathew hooked his thumb behind him. "I can get him for you."
"Great. Say, have you seen a woman resembling April?"
April? An alarming jolt of nerves raced through his body. How many Aprils were there? He inhaled a careful breath and waited to ask until he was confident his voice wouldn't break. "April who?"
"April Hartley."
Mathew exhaled. Why would he think people in his dream would know his sister? He stepped aside, and the short man entered.
"Can't say I know her. Have a seat, I'll be right back."
Mathew stepped onto the back porch, and the screen door slapped shut behind him. He jumped in his shoes. That door was going to give him a heart attack one of these times. Mathew lifted a hand to shade the falling sun from his view and scanned the fields for the familiar face, the frightening man of the house. Jonathan wasn't in sight. He took two creaking steps down and heard a muffled scream behind him. Mathew spun on his heels and raced back inside. The short man tussled with the intriguing woman. His hand clamped over her mouth, as he tried to pull her across the living room. She put up a fight, but Mathew extrapolated the Hispanic man would win.
Mathew crossed to them and demanded, "Let her go."
He hissed at him like a threatened cobra, "Never!"
Mathew decided for her safety to fight the guy. He wasn't sure how to begin without hurting the nameless beauty. He collected the shotgun from the kitchen counter. He didn't know how to use it, but the short man didn't know that. He pointed the barrel at him and repeated, "Let her go."
"You won't shoot me, you'll hit her!" The man fought and pulled on the woman, trying to drag her toward the front door by her hair. She thrashed and kicked and grunted.
True. Dammit. He turned the shotgun around, gripping it like a baseball bat. Mathew swung down hard and bashed him on the back of the neck. The man tumbled over, knocking the couch back, and his weight smothered the woman. Mathew grasped her hand and shoved the body off her, hefting her up to her feet. "You okay?"
She nodded with tears in her eyes. The strong, carefree woman was gone. She was terrified. Something primal inside Mathew woke up, and a heated rage burned against this man for attempting to hurt her. He guided her behind him, repositioned the gun properly, and aimed to use it. The short man stood up, wobbled, and rubbed his neck. He saw the gun and held up his hands, disappointment and frustration passed his features.
"I'll go. I didn't mean any harm."
"Liar!" the woman shouted behind Mathew.
"Just let me go, please?" His face shifted with fear, but something sinister lurked behind his eyes.
Mathew wasn't going to shoot him, even if he knew how to, but the intimidation worked. "Get out of here and never come back!"
The short man scurried out the door. Mathew blew out a deep breath in relief. How did people live like this? The stress alone was enough to kill. He set the gun down on the coffee table and grasped her upper arms in support. "Are you all right?"
Her tears spilled over, and she crashed her body against his, fitting just right beneath his chin. He inhaled a deep breath and released it slowly. He comforted her with his hand making motions on her back. It felt right. Mathew had been lonely for so long, he almost forgot how nice it was to hold someone and to be held. Her arms squeezed around his body, and he hushed her quiet sobs with a gentle hand to the back of her head. "It's okay. You're going to be just fine. I won't let anything happen to you."
The front door swung open with a kick, and a pair of revolvers pointed right at them. Oh, shit. The short man was back. So much for having a commanding terrifying presence to chase him away. The shotgun was too far away. He had nothing—no weapons and nowhere to hide. He was going to get them both killed right here.
"What do you want?" Mathew asked, his voice less in control than he'd planned.
The short man smiled and nodded to the woman in his arms. "I want her."
"Who are you?"
"I'm Jaime Perez, and you should know it."
Mathew stiffened. His arms protectively tightened around her. She trembled beneath him like a leaf in a breezy night.
"And if I say no?"
Jaime Perez stepped closer, keeping the barrels pointed at them both. Mathew had no idea about the accuracy of pistols. They looked old, like theater or reenactment-type stuff. He heard a story when he was a kid that said if you die in a dream, you die in real life. He wasn't about to risk testing that theory.
Jaime laughed, a horrible tinny laugh. "I will kill you and take her. Only she'll wish she was killed too." His thumbs pulled the hammers of the pistols. "Now, hand her over, and you won't get hurt."
Mathew shifted to make it seem like he was agreeing. With the reflex of a cobra, Jaime's hand snaked out and yanked the woman from his arms. She pinwheeled back and brought Mathew down on top of her.
Mathew squished her with a cringe-worthy crunch. Jaime grabbed her by the collar of her dress and tried to drag her with Mathew still on top of her. Mathew gripped her hands and spun around to gain purchase for his feet.
"Let go now, or I'm blowing your head away."
Mathew looked up at the barrel of a pistol trained squarely on his head. In his peripheral sight, a glint of a shape in the window caught his attention, and Mathew exchanged glances with a half of a face through the living room window. Before he could react, the woman whimpered beneath him, and he returned his attention to her. The fear in her eyes crushed his heart.
"It's shameful to destroy such a pretty thing. Yes, your head, not the threadbare rug. Last chance, big fella."
The hammer clicked with a squeeze of the trigger and Mathew closed his eyes. This was the end for him and the captured woman—wait!
Blackness dragged him down before he finished his thought.
Chapter Eight
Green Bay, Wisconsin
Present Day
MATHEW OPENED HIS eyes with surprise. His stomach's quivering subsided. What a crazy dream. So real, so believable. He chuckled and patted his body. No holes. He shook his head to clear it and stood up. A wretched smell penetrated his nose and his face pinched. In the bathroom, he flipped on the overhead light. In the mirror he sucked in a breath and stared.
"Hey," Kiko's voice floated over from the door.
Mathew's tongue felt stitched inside his mouth. His fingers touched the caked stains on his shirt. They didn't wipe off. A demanding need to understand what just happened loosened his tongue.
His head turned, and he stared her in the eyes. "What the hell was that?"
"Please have a seat."