Even worse for Kiefer, that sneak Henderson isn't going to IT at all! He's headed out to his car in the parking lot, apparently having decided to call it a day a couple of minutes early. Treacherous and lazy. But then, how much overtime would you put in for a company that makes you park a half-hour's walk from your office? He's on his cell phone with some woman as he goes, saying that after spending a half hour with Kiefer, he's satisfied that "CTU does not have enough information to hurt us." Which explains why Henderson didn't just kill Kiefer outright when he came through the door; he wanted to know what CTU knew. The mystery woman asks him about Bauer. "Well, in about one minute," Henderson says, calmly checking his watch, "he'll be dead." And he gets into his car.
Back in the bunker, Kiefer's busy indeed. He pulls up a heavy floor tile and peers underneath, although a table blocks our view of what's under there. Satisfied, he carries the clipbomb outside the inner door, sets it down on the floor at 4:58:32, closes the inner doors with himself inside, and starts piling file cabinets against them like the bomb is going to try and come back in.
Driving along in his automobile, Henderson reaches into his inside jacket pocket and pulls out a little stainless-steel dildo, which has been there all along. It has, do you hear me? He flips up the plastic top like a Pez dispenser and presses the little plastic button thus revealed, which beeps and glows red. Every garage door in Los Angeles starts opening.
No, what really happens is that the inside of Kiefer's bunker gets blown all to hell. The file-cabinet barrier doesn't do a bit of good; it's hurled through server racks, which explode in turn. Sparks fly everywhere. The dust hasn't even settled when that heavy floor tile swings up and open, revealing that Kiefer had secreted himself underneath to survive the blast. His ears ringing, he climbs out into the wreckage and draws his gun. I think you're going to have to at least make your way outside the blast radius before you get to shoot anyone, dude.
In other splitscreen windows, Henderson drives along, cool as a cybernetic/half-Japanese/drug-addicted cucumber in his aviator shades; the Suvarovs and FLOTUS still aren't dead, and the latter is seeking comfort in Aaron's arms; McGill cools his heels in the same cell where he had Buchanan at this time last hour; Bierko watches satellite coverage of his men's failed attack on Suvarov; and nineteen canisters of nerve gas stand neatly lined up nearby. Bierko angrily slams his laptop shut.