Cut to Team Scylla learning the hard way that someone's called Homeland Security on them. Michael figures Gretchen set them up -- a reasonable assumption -- and within moments, everyone except Lincoln has managed to escape. (And the only reason Lincoln doesn't is because he saw a few agents going after Michael and pulled a LINCOLN SMASH on one. Ah, Linc.) We cut to Michael gaping in horror at this development.
Then we transition back to Team Scylla HQ, which Herb is using as an impromptu interrogation room. He comments that "Killing two agents ought to put you back on death row, Mr. Burrows." Linc insists, "We didn't kill anyone. Self's behind this." Herb thinks not, and derisively comments, "You wouldn't be the first guy to sit in that chair and try to sell me a bill of goods." Linc begins poking holes in that theory: "Then why weren't we halfway to Mexico by the time you worked things out? Because we were in the dark just as much as you were." Herb doggedly insists that he knows what happened. Linc says, "You're not putting this together. Think about how much Scylla's worth. Think of the lengths Self went to to keep this thing off the books, and us? Us, of all people, pulling off the job." Herb only wants to know where the agents' bodies are, and Lincoln hollers, "For five minutes, stop thinking about us and focus on Self. Why would we jeopardize our freedom? It's the only thing we've ever cared about!" (Note: I love that when Dominic Purcell yells, his vowels go Antipodean.) Herb gives him a look like You may be right.
Mahone meets up with Dr. Sara and Michael in a public plaza, and he makes his pitch to call my girl Agent Lang and see if she can find out where Linc is. Michael doesn't reply; he calls Gretchen instead. We flash to Gretchen and Rita sitting at a table, staring at the phone as if it might explode. Don orders her to answer the phone, and after Michael says hello with "I should have put a bullet in your face when I had the chance," Gretchen coolly glares at Self and hands the phone to him. He gets on the phone for some more gloating: "You know, I meant what I said before, Michael. I like your style. You're a smart guy. Unfortunately for you, I'm just a little bit smarter." Oh no, he di'int! Michael snipes, "We'll see about that," which, coming from him, is the equivalent of a Jerry Springer guest screeching like a howler monkey shortly before she pulls out her formerly-best friend's nappy extensions. Don Self smugs, "I'm going to give you some parting advice: Run. Just get your pals and start running." We cut to T-Bag looking openly skeptical about the way Don is handling this. And who can blame him? He has long experience in knowing how long Michael holds a grudge. And Don has just guaranteed his own personal supergenius bete noir through 2055.