Chapter Two

Sayid took a seat in the sand next to Charlie, who sat with his knees pulled to his chest and his head burrowed down like a small beetle digging blindly in the dirt. The light from Charlie's private fire did not enliven his features, which were shrouded by the hood of his sweatshirt. Sayid glanced at the peculiar adornment with something like annoyance, and Charlie pushed it down away from his face. "So?" asked Charlie.

"Ana will join the army. I have not spoken to Locke because I do not want him involved until I have the guns." Sayid was still wary from Locke's recent betrayal, and he knew the man would have insisted on knowing Sayid's plan for regaining the guns. Sayid would rather have them in his possession before seeking Locke's assistance. He was fairly confident he could convince Locke to join them, once a schedule had been set for tending to the button in his absence and once reliable people had been selected for the task. And though he was confident of Locke's assistance, that did not precisely mean he trusted the man.

"Eko?" Charlie asked.

"I am not talking to anyone else until I have the guns. I should not even have spoken to Ana. That was a mistake. She may mention it to Jack, although I do not think she will. She is not ready to relinquish control yet. She will not want Jack to know about the guns until I have them either."

"What, and then she'll try to get you to give them up to her?" Charlie asked in disbelief.

"No. But she will try to maneuver a more commanding role for herself." Sayid reached out and rubbed his hands before the fire. It felt good. His eyes melted into the dancing flames; there was something mesmerizing about the way the fire crackled and flickered, something fiercely beautiful about the purging heat that leapt and weaved. The fire consumed the wood, little by little, grasping for life, not subdued by the breeze but growing with the air. "Come by my tent in three hours. Everyone should be sleeping soundly. Once you take me to the guns, you can leave."

"You don't need help moving them?"

Sayid looked away from the fire and surveyed Charlie's face. It had become so worn. "No."

"Where are you putting them?" Charlie asked.

"You do not need to know that."

Charlie toyed nervously with his index finger, twisting it left and right. Yesterday, Sayid had spoken to him about the Others, had reminded him of what they had done to Claire—as though he needed reminding. Charlie had been surprised by the attention Sayid had shown him, surprised that the Iraqi would come to him seeking affirmation for anything. And when Sayid had said that he obtained no useful information from Gale because of Locke's betrayal, Charlie had replied before he could stop himself, "Locke's a fool, and I'm glad I finally made him look like one."

When the words were out, he had looked away from Sayid, but he couldn't think fast enough. He could feel the eyes of the interrogator fixed on his profile. And then Sayid had asked, "What do you mean, Charlie?" After that, the questions had kept flowing, and Charlie had been helpless to withhold the truth.

The musician now asked, "You won't tell anyone that I helped Sawyer, will you?"

"You need not concern yourself with my silence," Sayid replied, rising from the sand. "Once Sawyer discovers the guns are gone, he will know you played a part."

Charlie's tongue darted out of his mouth. He pulled it back in, raking it against his teeth. "What if I change my mind? What if I don't show you where they are?"

Sayid looked down at him. "Do you really want to know the answer to that, Charlie?" he asked coolly.

Charlie swallowed hard and looked down at the ground. He didn't have to say no. Sayid knew he would take him to the guns, and Charlie knew that Sayid knew it. The musician reached behind his neck in a habitual motion and pulled up his hood.

That night, Sayid lay on his back in the tent and looked up at the dim pattern of the starlight that managed to permeate those few sections of the tarp that were not opaque. As he waited for the time to pass before Charlie arrived, he replayed the last two days in his mind. He had been upset with Locke for not fighting Jack, for letting the doctor in. But now, he was able to admit to himself that Jack's intrusion had been a blessing.

Sayid had not been in control of the interrogation. Gale had begun to manipulate him. It was shameful, Sayid thought, the way he had allowed his emotions to master him, the way he had made the questions personal and therefore useless. It was shameful, the way the grief had choked him, not in private, but in the very face of his enemy. It was well that Jack had broken in. How far might Gale have taken his game otherwise? How far downward might Sayid have spiraled in response?

But now he had calmed himself; now he had redirected his mind to the task of defense, rescue, and, yes—he would confess it—revenge. But he would not allow his quest for vengeance to hinge on emotion; the old cliché was trite, but it was trite because it was true: revenge is a dish best served cold. And he would be cold, and calm, and fully in control when he went to question Gale a second time tomorrow—after he had the guns, after he had given Charlie and Ana their first lessons, after he had recruited Eko and Locke and Kate. Gale would tell him what he needed to know to find the children of the tail end, to find Michael, to find Walt, to find the Others. Sayid would do whatever was required to make him tell, and Jack would not long dare to stand in his way.