XLVII: Veracruz

Sawyer had planned to take the money he got from the con and go, he remembers. Somewhere outside of the States, but not too far. Mexico would have been nice, maybe, and nobody would have gone to the trouble of looking for him there. Settle down in some resort town, Cancun or Veracruz or Cozumel Island or somewhere. Sit back in the shade, drinking margaritas and listening to mariachi songs. Retire early, at twenty-one. That sounded like a good plan and, for at least a moment, he'd had the money right there, and things ready to go. He had come so close to actually doing that.

But when they'd found him out, he'd been screwed. He'd had no good explanation, and he'd known they hadn't believed him. He still doesn't know how he got out of it, but now, on a tropical island he didn't even ask to go to – and this wasn't Cozumel, not by a long shot – he knows he was let go. He was let go, only to wind up here. They had been watching him when he was in the real world; he had known that since that phone message he'd gotten in that little North Carolina town. He shakes his head at that, though, disbelieving. Too easy. They wouldn't have let that slip. They wouldn't have been that careless. They wanted me to know. They needed me to know. Why?

He doesn't have the answers for it, and he does not have the luxury of taking some time out to think about it. All he can do is backtrack up towards the main entrance, and once they get out of the maze of paths into the central complex - Why was it built so confusingly? What didn't they want to come in? What threat were they protecting against before we came? – he starts to recognize a few things from his trek down. He was close to getting out, he realizes, and that takes him aback a bit. He was so close, and now – now he's gone and screwed it up.

You'll make it out anyway, he tells himself. His ankle stings still, and he's limping a little, but not too badly, not at all. He has to get out, and he focuses on that. They're taking him outside, and he won't have to play by their rules then. Whomever's come for him must have come in a group, because he can hear a clatter of army guys or something making their way past him, can see them jog up past them and disappear up ahead.

"Jesus," Sawyer lets out, "all those weapons, you'd think Godzilla'd come to attack. Big monster, shakes trees, crashes through the forest. You run into it?" He wants to get information, and he has to fight not to look too concerned about the answer.

"You want to know what it is," Kelvin replies. "Sorry. Can't do that."

He knows what it is. That's confirmation enough, and Sawyer tries to look disappointed. "Yeah, well. Figured I could let my friends know – you know, when I get back to 'em – what the story is there." He sets a hand on a door handle, clinging to it for a moment before jogging to catch up again. "You know, if we're all gonna be eaten by it when doomsday comes, we may as well know what the hell it is."

"What makes you think you'll see your friends again?" Kelvin sounds curious about that, not threatening, and the lack of a threat is more disturbing than Sawyer has anticipated. He honestly does not picture me making it back, he thinks. The hell with that. He's got his plan, and though it would be easier to work if he weren't already being slowed down a bit by his ankle, it's all right. It'll work. He goes over it again, a third time, then a fourth. He would have gone over it a fifth time, but they're almost at the door, and he looks out and he can see the road again and a couple of people on it, and he thinks of bolting instantly, but then doesn't think that's a good idea. They haven't pulled any guns on him yet. If he can make things work out so that doesn't happen, so much the better. If he knew whom was out there, though, he could figure things out, figure out how they'll react, figure out how he should act, but he doesn't have that luxury, either. He's out of a lot of luxuries today.

"Hey, Bonaduce," he says, leaning heavily on the door frame, thinking, Your ankle's hurt for a while, idiot. Move past it. He sucks in a breath, drops his voice, makes it look like his injury's taken hold of him. His voice pitches lower, and he makes his foot go limp, dragging it a bit. "You wanna know what to do with those guys out there? Whoever it is, I've fought with them, so I can tell you what to do. Trust me." By that time now, he's gasping a little in pain. He's not sure it's entirely an act.

And, unbelievably, Kelvin actually does move towards him, if cautiously. He doesn't believe him a bit, Sawyer knows, but the traitor act has piqued his curiosity. The redhead takes a step forward, and Sawyer looks outside, stares into the noon light, fakes distraction for a moment. Closer, you bastard. He's looking into the light, but he can see Kelvin's movement peripherally, and he leans into it as he waits, shifting his weight forward, ready to spring.

Kelvin's used to keeping things out of his arm's reach, so he stops short, but he doesn't stop short enough. Sawyer's taller and longer-limbed, and he can reach him, whereas Kelvin doesn't stand a chance of grabbing him unless he jumps and puts himself off-balance. He had counted on getting that chance.

And he's got it.

Though it kills his ankle, he springs forward, grabs a hold of Kelvin, gets his arm with his own good hand, wrenches it up and holds it tight in a lock. You bastards shot me in the shoulder, and now let's see how your shoulder feels. He'd be lying to say it doesn't feel good to get a little revenge, but he does his best to keep it at bay. He's opened up the burn on his hand, too, and that's starting to ooze something scary, but that doesn't matter. He yanks harder on Kelvin's shoulder, and his own shoulder hurts, and his hand and his ankle too, but that's all right, because he deserves that much, anyway.

"Move," he repeats Kelvin's words. That feels good too. He braces himself though, because, hell, given past altercations with scary people, who knows how strong this guy is? He hopes he won't find out that things have changed since they talked at the casino and the restaurant, because if they have, then he's in deep shit. He shoves at the redhead, though, and there is no resistance. "Any of your goons come after me, and I'll tear your damn arm off. Don't think I won't," he tells Kelvin as he pushes him out, careful as possible to keep a tight hold on him.

The sunlight hits him sharply, and he squints against it, tries to focus. The figures – two, four, five – come into focus, and he can tell who they are. They're clustered on the macadam out there, and he suspects he knows why. He doesn't dare look up above, but he can hear the shuffling and rustling that announces snipers. He starts to laugh, feeling hysterical again. This is good. This is too good.

"Jesus, guys, you came a few minutes too late," Sawyer declares loudly. "And it looks like they've got snipers on you. Meet Kelvin. Kelvin here runs the damn place, or," he adds, noticing the redhead's flinch of disagreement, "close enough for government work. Or whoever's work it is. I don't think he likes me much." He notices Locke and Kate start at that. He wonders why, and then decides he doesn't care. They probably met him just like he did, back before the crash. There will be time enough to sort that out later. "Kelvin, tell those damn snipers to stand down."

Silence.

"Tell those snipers to stand down, or I will kill you, you son of a bitch."

Silence. He wrenches Kelvin's arm up into a direction it was never meant to go, and Kelvin's not silent anymore. "Stand down!" the man orders, half in a yelp, and he can hear the clatter of rifles unloaded. All of them, though? How can he tell? He doesn't dare turn around, and he doesn't dare loosen his grip on Kelvin.

He hits upon the person to watch. Sayid. He meets the shorter man's eyes, sees the slight nod. They must have actually done what Kelvin ordered. Will it really be that easy? He can't believe that. But he has to. A trained military man says it looks that way, and he has to believe that. His head is starting to pound, and the gravity of the situation is starting to swirl around him, enveloping him like a cloud, like that damn smoke – the hell with that.

Sawyer keeps a tight grasp on the redhead's arm nonetheless. That stuff oozing from his hand isn't letting up; he must have popped the blister. It burns now like he'd just had the cigarette on it, and he likes the feeling, in a way. It tells him he's still human. "Tell them what you were doing, Kelvin. Tell them now."

Kelvin doesn't say anything. That makes him angry. He's going to get an answer out of the guy, because they won't believe him, not Sawyer; they'd never believe him, no matter what he says. He needs to get it out of Kelvin, and he moves his fingers to clutch Kelvin's wrist, put pressure there, prepare to break it if he has to. It's a drastic move, and he knows it, but he doesn't feel bad about it. Why should he? After what they were about to do to him, he deserves this. And his friends deserve answers.

"Tell them, or I'll snap your wrist. And then your fingers," Sawyer commands, his hand stretching, the burn oozing, everything painful and burning at once.

"Sawyer, let's go!" An urgency in Kate's voice.

"Hey, listen, Sawyer, you're out now." Even the Latina urges caution.

"There is no need for this." Ahab, always trying to moralize the situation.

He doesn't listen to any of them.

Kelvin twists back towards him – what that's got to do to his arm, Sawyer thinks, and he almost drops the arm out of pity, but he doesn't. The other man leans in towards Sawyer, and his voice is dispassionate and crystal clear. "One of them killed Frank Sawyer," he says, his voice pitched only for Sawyer to hear. "One of them did your work for you. Killed the man that you wanted to die. Cheated you out of that."

Sawyer glances past Kelvin towards the others, staring at them. And then he realizes, "He knew where Knoxville was," he murmurs, and he's not too sure if he's speaking to Kelvin or himself. Fantastic. I spend my life trying to kill some damn guy that the Arab's killed at the start. And then: "Dana? The newspaper guy? Ain't no damn way. No. No." He can't believe that, and he loosens his grip, staring, shaking his head wildly. If I can't kill the real Sawyer, he thinks, then what else is there to live for? His hand slips free of Kelvin's arm and down to his side, almost mechanically.

Bad mistake. He realizes that the instant after he does it. Kelvin's arm is fine, almost, and the free hand is sailing towards him for a punch, and he thinks, He'll kill me. He'll kill me here, and I'll deserve it. I'll deserve all of it. He doesn't even bother to duck, just shuts his eyes so he doesn't have to see the punch hit, knowing it will knock him unconscious and let them kill him, feeling his hands open slightly and thinking, Hit me. Hit me and get it over with.

The punch doesn't come. He opens his eyes after a moment to see the big African guy, Shaft, Mr. Eko, standing near Kelvin, holding the redhead's arms. He stares, shaking his head, lets out a nervous little laugh. "Jesus, Shaft, that's some nice work you done th – "

Eko cuts him off. "We are going now."

"Right. Right," Sawyer says, and he starts to sprint, knowing as he does that the snipers will open up on them to shoot him, half of him, and the other half knowing that they won't, because they want them alive. They want them alive so they can change them, turn them into some sort of freaks, and he wanted Kelvin to say that, but Kelvin isn't going to tell them anything.

He hopes they'll believe him, once he tells them. And he hopes that they'll plan to do something about it. He takes a few steps forward, tottering a bit, and then, following Eko's quicker steps, he starts to run. Eko watches the stuff behind Sawyer, and Sawyer takes that as license to keep on hurrying forward, looking at the others – friends? That's what he'd described them as, but that was before Kelvin told him that.

Speaking of Kelvin, the plan worked. Taking Kelvin hostage worked. He's distracted by that, and for at least that moment, he feels exultant. He's managed to get out, and he's managed to have people come for him, and the whole thing is pretty cool, really, when you think about it, because he'd never expected that. This whole thing's surprised him. Most of it's been all right, really, and hey, he's still alive. He hadn't expected that.

That's before something hits him in the back of the head. It's not sharp, and it doesn't really hurt, and he knows it wasn't from someone directly behind him, and he doesn't think that any of the others saw it, but he starts to flail a bit, and his ankle and his hand hurt again, and he has no way to tell them this, because he can't find the words right now, and he starts to lose control again, thinking, Not this again. Not when I was so close. He can see them up ahead, but they're fuzzier now and darker, and he extends a hand towards them, hoping someone will take it and pull him along. They've come to get him, so they had better damn well get him, or else he'll never forgive them, once he wakes up, if he wakes up, and he hopes he will.

Mexico would have been better.