Michael pulls it up on his handheld and says, "There's something from C-Note" -- which he ignores -- "and something from Sucre." Michael smiles, genuinely pleased by that. Then he stops smiling: "Sucre says T-Bag's right here. In Panama." Linc sensibly wants to know how Sucre knows that. Michael reads Sucre's message: "The Bag's still got THE BAG. He's in Panama City. At the Fin Del Camino Hotel. If you're there and want to help put that bird back in a cage -- let me know. Sucre."
For some reason, Linc is really offended that T-Bag's in Central America. Michael wants to get the unidextrous perv. Linc tells him, "Let it be -- we don't need the money." Michael explains that it's not about the money so much as it is about the trail of bodies between Chicago and Panama City, and his attendant guilt for enabling any of that. Michael implores Lincoln to help him make this right: "Panama City is only an hour away and we know where he's staying." Linc points out that the police are also an hour away.
Michael says, "There's a reason I chose Panama -- no extradition laws. The police aren't going to touch him." Linc asks, "So what are you going to do?" Michael shrugs: "I'll figure something out." Linc snaps, "Figure it out? You don't take a piss without a plan, man." Let's hope the tattoos for that are within easy eyeshot. Linc argues, "Look at me -- I never think things through and look where it got me." On an opulent sailboat docked along one of the loveliest stretches of pristine beach in the world? How is that going to discourage Michael?
As if he were reading my mind, Michael turns around and snarls, "Yeah, in Panama on a boat filled with booze." Lincoln points out that Michael did that; all he could get himself was a death sentence. He pleads, "Let's just get out to sea, think things through. When the time is right, we make it right." Michael sits there and wonders when up became down, black became white, and Linc became the voice of moderation and caution. We see that Michael has just posted his own message: "I'm in. Let me know when you get there. Michael"
We zip to Mahone reading that message and that's when we see that he's been posting as Sucre on the board. Then he gets up, tells the handheld, "See you soon," and boards his flight to Panama City. AWESOME.
Back on the boat, Linc digs out a bottle of tequila and says, "Home sweet home." He climbs back up on the deck, calling, "I got the booze, but the limes are shot"... only to discover that he's all alone on the boat. As Linc shouts Michael's name, we get a final aerial shot to show how alone he is. And I sigh, because I just know this is the last lovely, lingering shot of shoreline I'm going to see for a while.