Free The Buried (The Apostles) by Shelley Coriell

work, his lifestyle—hell, his history—were not conducive to caring for a teenage boy. And this boy had rightly recognized he’d be better off without Hatch. Smart, smart kid.
    In the borrowed SUV, Hatch took Alex home, and by the time he got back to No Regrets , he was ready for that icy cold beer. The all-night sail had left him tired. Bullshit. The one-two punch of Alex and Grace had knocked the wind from his sails.
    He grabbed a longneck from the galley, paused, and grabbed another. Topside, a briny breeze skipped across the deck while he polished off the first beer. Clouds were moving in, taking off the sharp edge of the late afternoon sun. He tucked the beer in a cup holder, settled back for a nap, and threw a cap over his face. Before he could start counting sheep, footsteps clattered on the dock, and his boat dipped.
    “Beer’s in the fridge below,” Hatch said to his cap.
    “I’m afraid I’ll have to pass.”
    He bolted up. The glass bottle slipped from the cup holder, hit the deck and shattered. Another mess. Kind of par for the course with him and Grace. He couldn’t force a smile. Alex had tested him and taken his last thread of patience. “What are you doing here, Grace?”
    “I need an Apostle.”

Chapter Eight
    T he first drop splattered Grace’s right shoulder. Another hit her left cheek. Thunder rolled across the sky, shoving the clouds—and rain—closer to Cypress Point.
    “We’re on our way, Lia, and we’re going to find you.” Grace threaded her way through dozens of cars pulling into the parking lot of Don and Dar’s Bait Shop. A news crew from a Tallahassee television station was preparing for a live feed, and volunteers outfitted with swamp waders, lights, and shovels were checking in and picking up maps. Thanks to Hatch’s teammate Agent Jon MacGregor, a full-scale, state-of-the-art, best-of-the-best search-and-rescue effort was underway.
    At the command station she found Lieutenant Lang, who handed her a sheet of paper with cross-hatch marks. “CSU found these tracks in an old oil spill in the parking lot where Rhonda Belo saw Lia Grant talking to the person driving the white truck.”
    Grace grabbed it, thrusting the paper in the air like a trophy. Finally, they had something.
    Her smile faltered as Hatch hopped out of an SUV. She had no problem with him being here. He was responsible for getting Agent MacGregor on board and was certainly good in crisis situations, but she took issue with the hard glare he leveled at her.
    His fingers clawed around her upper arm. “Don’t you dare move until we talk.”
    “I don’t need to take orders from you, as this is not your jurisdiction or your case.” She tried to jerk away, but his grip tightened.
    “’Fraid it is, Princess. You asked for help from the SCIU.”
    “Which would be Agent Jon MacGregor. I do believe that’s the person I’ll be answering to.”
    Hatch held up his cell phone. “Grace meet Jonny Mac. Jonny Mac meet Grace.”
    “Afternoon, Grace,” a deep voice came from the cell phone’s speaker. “I’ll need to talk with you in a minute, but Hatch and I need to get the ground crew rolling. He’s my eyes and ears and hands and feet.”
    And one of those golden hands was on her arm. “Of course,” she said. “Let me know what you need me to do.”
    Hatch turned the phone off speaker, but before he spoke to Agent MacGregor, he mouthed, Don’t move. With the phone at his ear, he plowed through the growing crowd of searchers.
    There were times Grace felt Hatch wasn’t of this world. He was a free spirit moving in a universe not of man. He was air and light, sun and heat. This afternoon was not one of those times. Today Hatch was solid, steely, in command. And he was an FBI agent from a renowned special unit with a vast number of resources at his golden fingertips. Grace might not need Hatch in her life, but until Agent MacGregor arrived, Lia did.
    Another raindrop plopped onto her head. Wind tugged at her