We cut to Mahone pointing out that once you lay down with the One World Conspiracy, you have, metaphorically speaking, a case of the crabs that lingers for life. Baker's in denial that this will ever happen to him, and Mahone is all, "Unless you have led a blameless life with no human attachments whatsoever, the One World Conspiracy is coming for you, chump. Also, isn't your conscience bothered by their murder and mayhem?" Baker's answer to that last question: "No." But the eavesdropping Elaine seems to think otherwise. Mahone also shrewdly figures out that deep down inside, Baker wishes he had never taken the Scylla gig, and that's why he does all the do-gooder work. Baker's like, "This is all in the past, la la la la la," but the two black armored cars that have just pulled up and the disgorged mess of Conspiracy stooges would seem to argue otherwise.
Gretchen and Linc are back, and Sucre greets her with, "You knew about this, didn't you?" Gretchen protests, "First of all, I have no idea why the [One World Conspiracy] would want to put an explosive device of any kind underneath their own building." "Under the courtyard!" Sucre clarifies. "And honestly, I had no idea that any of this was even here," Gretchen continues. She then hunkers down and identifies the mines as JZ-33 anti-personnel blast mines. "What's beeping?" she then asks. "It beeps," Sucre says, trying to sound calm and failing. Gretchen adds more details: "Your weight is evenly distributed across the pressure plate, and you haven't engaged the firing pin. You can't move an inch." Linc wants to know what Gretchen's idea is. She snaps, "My idea is that he moves an inch. That way I can get to the hole and I can dismantle the firing pin. Right now, he's standing on it; I can't do anything." Sucre is not into this whole moving-an-inch thing, and he babbles at Linc in Spanish for a plan B. Linc irritably shouts, "What?" Can't you imagine how well he was getting along in Panama with the natives? Just picture every business transaction punctuated by a human rhino shouting, "WHAT?" over and over. Sucre uses his English: "Call your brother, please!" Awww! Sucre wants a chance to say goodbye to the great bromantic love of his life!
Then we're off to Don Self's office, when who should open the door but the dishy Trisha. Don Self asks if he can help her, and Trisha shuts the door before answering, "Uh ... I messed up. Today, I was working with Bagwell. He's been compliant as hell. I wanted to make him happy, so I talked to him about Gretchen Morgan and I slipped up. I mentioned Whistler." Don Self rolls his eyes in exasperation, and Trisha defends herself with, "This one is tough, I am telling you. Bagwell, Gretchen Morgan, they're thugs. I have been face down with a gun to the back of my head more than once." Don Self sighs and says, "You're a good agent, we could reassign you ..." And HOLY COW, I did not see that one coming at all! Yet it's not an incomprehensibly stupid plot twist! It actually makes sense. So congratulations, writers -- you've pulled this plot caper off. Anyway, the upshot is that Trisha's a plucky little agent. She'll be dead before Thanksgiving, I would bet on it.