The phone exchange made, Jack asks Face if they're through. Face is all, yeah, sure. Just as soon as you stop pretending to check out the menu and hand over the SIM card. Jack pulls out his phone, removes the card, and hands it over. Face makes one final attempt at a different facial expression; when it fails, she just tells Jack she'll be in touch. Jack gets up and walks away, casually glancing at his hand as he does. There's a blotch of blue ink on his finger. D'oh! Guess the CIA can't afford permanent ink stamps, huh? Hell, I'm surprised they even HAD a stamp ready, willing, and able. It's not like a request for a SIM card is, like, COMMON or anything.
Anyway, Jack knows his goose is cooked and starts beating tracks outta there. At the same time, Face looks down at the SIM card and sees that it's smudged. She runs her finger over it and it smears. She grimaces, her face nearly cracking from the strain of movement, and snaps into her lapel, "Move in on the package!"
About seven Men In Black come careening out of several different buildings. They scramble around looking for Jack, but Spy Daddy's long gone. As they waste precious minutes staring into thin air, the CIA van scoots past with Hot Agent Craig at the wheel. I'm sorry. I think he's bad news. He's hot, but he's a bad guy. I don't know why I think that. Just call it gut instinct. He's a baaaaad boy.
In the back of the van, Vaughn faces Jack. He's allotted about five furrows to anger, three to disgust, and ten to "the hell?" Vaughn's picking up a mighty nice pout himself, by the way. Jack finally meets Vaughn's eyes and, not too surprisingly, Vaughn doesn't hold his gaze for very long. But, then, as Jack continues to stare, and The Violin Strings Of Agency Betrayal And Unwarranted Cold-Blooded Murder shriek across the soundtrack, Vaughn finally looks back at Jack, his expression built solidly around "when Syd and I get married, you are SO not invited to the wedding."
Cue the whicky-whicky disco beats of Mexico City, homies! We're at a kickin' roof party, watching a DJ with dreads doing his thing. The camera pans to the back of the roof as Syd dances through the crowd, wearing a pimp-o-riffic tracksuit that would make J. Lo proud. As the DJ shouts, "Are you ready to par-taaaaaaay?" we realize, sadly, that this isn't just any DJ; it's Dixon, sporting yet another hideous wig. How come Syd gets all the cute hairpieces? Huh? Dix moves his dreads out of the way, looks down at some monitors, and informs Syd that he's ready to receive. Syd snarks, "'Are we ready to party'?" Dix is all, spare me, okay? I speak nine different languages, but techno sure as hell ain't one of them. Syd makes her way to the edge of the roof, removes her backpack, and opens it, producing some spy gadget. She tells Dix to give her cover as she shoots some hook thing across to another roof and pulls it taut.