of a casino bathed in gunsmoke, blood, and plaster. It's not like Hollis had blinked, either. "You're a fed?" The guy fishes his badge out to hold up to Hollis's face. Either the pain or the pills make the words a little swimmy, but when Hollis squints they clear up well enough: FBI, looks legit if you don't mind the bloody fingerprint on the edge of the shield. Been a long time since he'd seen one of those badges in person, working just on the shady side of recovery, like they do. Like they did. But still, no reason to doubt him, and he doesn't seem to be in any hurry to make trouble. If the guy had wanted to make him dead, would have been easy enough to do it right there in the open, in all that chaos. If the guy had wanted him put in cuffs, probably would have done that already, too. He's pretty sure he hadn't done anything strictly illegal. Well, up until the the murder, but that hardly seems to count. Israel had holed up right on the state line, casinos on his side of the street, straight low-end hotels on the other. Come to think of it, Hollis's got no idea which side of the street he caught up with Tremor on. Maybe he has done something the feds would book him for, transporting whatever might be lurking in the trunk over state lines. Best not to say anything about it, anyhow. Hollis