Ah. Thank God for commercials. Excuse me while I drink thirteen gallons of Gatorade and shave my tongue.
Much better. Pass the corn nuts, Owen. This puppy's almost over.
Down in the now green-tinged basement bathroom, two armed guys are just sitting around, shooting the merde. There's a knock at the door, and when one of the guys goes to get it, Syd kicks it in and the bullets start flying. We don't see any of the actual shooting, because we're too busy watching Wife of Slater and Son of Slater cringing on the floor in the other room.
When it's over, Syd creeps around the corner, and she and Vaughn rescue Wife of Slater and Son of Slater. And yes, Michael Vartan looks super-extra-hot with that kid in his arms. Yum. Wife of Slater is being escorted out by some CIA guys when she stops, turns, and asks for Syd's name. "Thank you, Sydney," she sobs. Syd looks like she's either going to cry or kick a puppy or something. Vaughn comes up and tells her that one of the guards had a cell phone, and that if either Sarkie or Sloaney called the phone directly, the CIA will be able to trace to his exact location.
Oops Center. A bunch of CIA geeks are standing at Dingus's desk, asking how the master detected the tap the CIA put on the SD-6 network last year. Dingus gets all geeky superior on them and says, "Yes, that was a noble attempt, gentlemen, a noble attempt. But, uh, you see, what happened was it was interfering with my online Dungeon Master game. My gnome kept skipping a frame every time he swung his battle ax, so..." Hee. I missed Marshall. Now, if we could just shove a few more Will moments in here, I'd be MUCH happier.
Marshall's phone rings. He's all, dude! My first phone call! 'Scuse me! It's Syd, demanding that he run a location trace on every incoming call to the phone she's on. Marshall's on it. Syd paces back and forth in Switzerland as Marshall works his magic. He triangulates the location and nails Sloane to the Amcorp Bank on Newmarket Street in Zurich. Syd hangs up and looks at Vaughn. "We're going to Newmarket Street," she gasps.
And here comes the Ford Focus.
I find it more than a little ironic that I am writing this recap after fending off my drunken ex-boyfriend, who also happens to be the owner of a Ford Focus (or Ford Fuckus, as I like to call it), and this entire next scene is just one glaring product placement for the Ford Focus. It makes me think of Kevin Smith on that IFC show, Dinner for Five, and Jon Favreau's comment about how Smith wrote a script for a short film advertising a Ford Focus and he detested the idea so much that the final line of his script was, "Dude, would you fuck another guy up the ass for a Ford Focus?" Ford was less than amused. But it makes me giggle every time.