Another accident? He was confused for a moment, but he knew from the light he’d seen-and the truck on the side of the road-that someone was here. He followed the trail, shouting as he ran, “Morgan, I’m coming. Hold on, baby, I’m coming!”

If he’d been in another line of work, Nash would have died a moment later. Some instinct caused him to duck as he felt a rush of air near his ear, and the thick branch that would have brained him made contact with his right shoulder instead, causing him to drop his flashlight. He grunted in pain and turned to confront his attacker.

The man was swinging the branch in the opposite direction when Nash stepped under it and hit him in the solar plexus, doubling him over. Nash followed with an uppercut that rocked the man’s head back. Arms flailing, his attacker fell over backward. Nash followed him, grabbing two handfuls of the man’s corduroy jacket and dragging him upright to hit him again.

The heavyset man put his hands up and cried, “Stop! Stop!”

Nash frisked him one-handed, then dropped him on the ground and retrieved his flashlight. He shined it on the man’s face and realized he’d seen him before. At the convenience store.

“What are you doing out here?” he asked.

“My wife is missing. She went out last night to get some cigarettes and never came back. We had an argument, so I thought maybe she spent the night with her mother. When she never showed up this morning, I thought maybe she had an accident. I’ve been looking for her along this road most of the day.”

“Why did you attack me?”

“I was afraid. People are always dumping stuff up here at night. That’s illegal, you know. So I thought maybe…” His voice trailed off and he shrugged sheepishly.

“There’s dried blood in the back of your pickup.”

“Oh. That’s nothing.”

“Nothing?” Nash shot back.

“I found a deer on the side of the road-hit by a car, I guess. I put it in my truck, figuring I’d butcher it. But it wasn’t dead and it woke up and jumped out.”

Animal blood. Nash shook his head in disgust. He turned and followed the trail of broken branches and car wreckage to a dark-colored Toyota. It had run head-on into a sycamore.

His heart began thudding hard when he spied the bloodstained windshield on the driver’s side. His flashlight reflected something on the passenger’s window. A bloody handprint.

Then he saw the long-legged female body lying on the leaf-strewn ground. The head and shoulders were covered with a black leather jacket. He recognized the distinctive silver buttons.

The jacket belonged to Morgan.

He gave a cry of anguish as he ran forward and dropped to his knees beside the body. He gently eased the jacket away, even though the woman was apparently dead. And swallowed the sob that erupted as he realized…it isn’t Morgan!

This must be his attacker’s wife. But who had covered her dead face with Morgan’s jacket? And where was Morgan?

“Nash.”

His name came as a whisper on the wind. He felt his heart surge with joy as he called into the darkness, “Morgan! Where are you!”

Equally quiet, a ghostly warning, “Look out!”

Nash whirled and rose in one motion and found himself facing a Colt.45 automatic.

“Where the hell is she?” the stranger said in a harsh voice. “That bitch killed my wife!”

“What’s your connection to the woman who owns that leather jacket?” Nash asked.

The stranger sneered. “She saw me dump a body. Couldn’t leave her out here after that. Sent my wife to pick her up. And that bitch crashed my car.”

Nash glanced at the car and realized how desperate Morgan must have been. And how brave. And how precious she was to him.

“She killed my wife!” the stranger ranted.

Nash glanced at the dead body. He knew Morgan must have done everything in her power to save the woman. It was what she did.

“When I’m done with you, I’ll find her, and she’ll pay.” The stranger was distracted by a crash in the underbrush.

The instant he turned his head, Nash leapt. He was nearly deafened by the gunshot, but the bullet shot past his ear into the night. He made short work of disarming the stranger. This time he used the man’s own weapon to knock him out.

When the short life-and-death struggle was over, Nash shoved himself onto his feet and said in a calm, quiet voice, “Where are you, Morgan?”

A faint voice said, “I’m here.”

He followed Morgan’s voice to a spot in the bushes behind the sycamore tree. She was sitting up with her back braced against a red maple. He kept his flashlight lowered, so it wouldn’t hit her in the eyes. But he couldn’t help noticing her blood-soaked shirt. And her bloody, lacerated face.

His knees surprised him by buckling, and he dropped onto the leaves beside her. “What kind of shape are you in?” He was afraid to touch her. She was covered in blood.

“Cracked rib, I think. Sprained-maybe fractured-ankle. Whiplash. Multiple cuts on my face and arms. Broken finger.”

“That’s all?”

“That’s enough!” she said with asperity. “You took long enough getting here.”

“I was waiting for your call.”

She avoided his gaze and said matter-of-factly, “I lost my phone. And the dead woman’s phone got broken in a million little bits in the crash. I was afraid to go out on the road, because I knew that killer would come hunting his wife. So I’ve been hiding.” She paused, met his gaze and said, “Waiting for you to find me.”

Nash brushed the knuckles of his hand across her blood-crusted cheek. “When I saw that body, I thought you were dead.”

“When I saw that tree coming at me-”

“I’m sorry, Morgan.”

“I know. So am I.”

“I’m leaving the country in a few hours. If you need me-for anything-leave a message on my phone and-”

She moaned as she lifted her arm to brush her scraped knuckles across his cheek. Her eyes brimmed with tears as she said, “Goodbye, Nash.”

He didn’t pretend to misunderstand what she was saying. He couldn’t fight for her. Not when she loved his brother. He had to let her go.

“So, do I call an ambulance?” he said at last. “Or can I just pick you up and drive you to the nearest hospital?”

She managed a tenuous smile. “Call the cops to come get that murdering son of a bitch. Then take me to the nearest hospital.”

JON LAND

“Killing Time” has all the earmarks of international bestselling author Jon Land. A tense situation in which time is your enemy. Impossible odds. And a villain you’re not likely to ever forget, even if he happens to be on your side.

The main character in “Killing Time,” Fallon, is a sociopath. He’s a professional killer who-after a kill goes horribly wrong-hides out by murdering and impersonating an English teacher at Hampton Lake Middle School. Jon got the idea for this story after the tragic events that happened in Chechnya when terrorists seized a school-killing and wounding hundreds of students. It fascinated him to think about what would have happened if the terrorists had come across someone as demented and violent as they were. “Killing Time” is the answer to that question. And it’s not pretty.