At Madeline's house, Agent Callahan finishes up a phone call and tells Madeline their agents didn't find anything at Sawgrass Mills Mall. Not even on the clearance racks? He says he could charge her with aiding and abetting, but she calls it a "senior moment." An unamused Callahan starts yelling at her about the accident that he thinks Michael just caused. "People were injured! My people! These were men with families, and you're sitting there, letting it happen." Callahan's partner comes in with a box from the garage, which contains "modified shotgun rounds, listening devices, bomb-making components." Madeline should have distracted them by showing them the false back in the front closet, which hides such incriminating materials as her late husband's porn stash. Instead, she quickly says of the found contraband, "Those are mine." Callahan comes over all upset on her behalf, warning that she's confessing to federal crimes. "That may seem very noble right now, but believe me, after you're in a federal prison for a few years, you will feel very different." Yes, because Michael would let that happen. We'd see Madeline behind bars and a subtitle that reads "Madeline -- The Client" and she'd be a free woman by 10:55 Eastern. Callahan sits down and tries to tell her that he's the only one who still wants to take Michael alive, unlike the people who are out there after him. "They will shoot first and ask questions later," says the only person who's shot at Michael all day. So far, I should say, but still.
Fi drives that little blue Hyundai up to the front of the Epic Hotel, and as they get out, Sam makes a remark that sounds like he's angling for that voice-over commercial announcing gig himself. Then he tips the valet to keep it out front while they head inside for a quick errand. Wait, you can do that?
Inside, Sam and Fi find a huge basement storage room, and roll aside a giant laundry bin so Fi can get a load of the bomb. She doesn't like what she sees. And if the bomb had eyes, I'm sure it would be mutual. On top of one of the bomb's four 55-gallon drums is a circuit-board sandwich bolted down over several blocks of C-4. "Right up against a load-bearing wall," Fi notices. She opens her bomb-defusing kit, which today appears to contain a big Thermos of liquid nitrogen and two pairs of thick rubber gloves, the latter of which they put on. "Liquid nitrogen isn't available at the corner store," Michael VOs. "But it is a standard part of a bomb-maker's workshop. It's also useful for defusing explosives." As Fi starts pouring the stuff over the detonator in a cloud of mist, the VO continues, "On a well-made bomb, you can forget about cutting wires. Any decent bomb-maker will make sure the important wires are impossible to reach." Once Fi has emptied the container, Sam says, "Well, Fi, it's been real." "Yes it has," she agrees. As Sam puts his hands on the device and pulls the circuitry free, Michael's VO adds, "Freeze the detonator, though, and you can usually remove it safely." Sam gets it loose. "Of course, 'usually' is not a word you want to hear when you're working with explosives." While Sam is carrying the detonator away, making me wonder how he plans to get it past the front desk clerk, it beeps on him. Fi tells him to get rid of it fast. On their way out of the room at a run, Sam throws it behind several giant racks of water cooler bottles, and then they brace themselves as soon as they're around the corner. But nothing happens, to their great relief. Until it does, that is, and just the detonator has enough boom to knock over a lot of water jugs. They may have to tip that valet a little more generously now.