The second incident started on a screen, not in a freezer.

Agent Erin Sato watched it unfold in a clipped video that looked like a thousand other clips. A shaky camera. A breathless voice. A man in a hoodie walking fast through a parking garage, carrying a hard-sided cooler with a biohazard sticker that filled the frame.

The caption did the work the video didn’t.

LAB SAMPLE LOOSE IN BALTIMORE. THEY’RE HIDING IT.

Sato didn’t blink. She didn’t flinch. She just felt her patience drain away.

Ryan Cade stood behind her and listened to the room breathe. Keys clicked. Radios hissed. A printer whined in the corner, spitting out pages nobody read yet.

“That’s a follow-on,” Ryan said.

Major Keene looked up from his phone. “Follow-on to what?”

Ryan nodded toward the screen. “The data theft. They’re lighting a second fire.”

Leila Mbeki sat at the edge of the table, shoulders tight. She looked like she hadn’t slept in two days, because she hadn’t.

“They already have the dataset,” she said. “Why do this?”

Sato answered without emotion. “Because panic makes pressure. Pressure makes bad decisions.”

Keene’s jaw tightened. “And bad decisions make leverage.”

The video ended on a freeze-frame. The hoodie turned, just enough to show a side profile. The face stayed hidden. The cooler stayed centered, like a prop.

Sato stood. “Where was this posted?”

An analyst spoke without looking up. “TikTok first, then X. Two minutes apart. Several accounts amplified it. They’re coordinated.”

Ryan leaned in. “Location?”

The analyst tapped the screen. “Garage near the Inner Harbor. The poster tags a hotel. It’s a block from the convention center.”

Leila’s eyes sharpened. “There’s a medical conference there today.”

Sato’s phone rang. She answered on the first ring.

“Go,” she said.

A voice came through, fast and tight. “Towson General reports three walk-ins. They claim lab exposure. Media is calling.”

Sato held her gaze on the video frame. “Any confirmation?”

“None,” the voice said. “Just fear and a lot of phones.”

Sato ended the call and looked at Keene. “I want eyes on the harbor. Now.”

Keene nodded once and keyed his radio. “Move teams. Close in. Quiet.”

Ryan watched the analyst scroll through posts. The same phrases repeated, like they had been copied from a script. The same demands showed up, too, buried among the hysteria.

SHOW THE FILES.

CONFIRM THE ESCAPE.

ADMIT IT’S OUT.

Ryan knew what that meant.

They wanted an official statement.

They wanted the government to validate a lie.

Leila’s voice came tight. “If we say anything, we confirm it.”

Sato nodded. “If we say nothing, the rumor becomes reality online.”

Keene’s expression stayed hard. “We find the cooler.”

Ryan’s phone buzzed. A message from a number he didn’t recognize.

He didn’t open it right away.

He waited until his mind felt still, then he tapped.

A single line appeared.

YOU STOPPED THE COURIER. YOU DIDN’T STOP THE TRADE.

A second line followed.

LOOK AT YOUR INBOX.

Ryan looked up at Sato. “They just checked in.”

Sato didn’t ask who. She didn’t need to.

She gestured to a tech. “Pull the facility email. Anything new.”

Leila stood, anger pushing her upright. “This is about the dataset.”

Sato’s eyes stayed cold. “Yes.”

Keene’s radio chirped. A voice spoke fast. “We have movement. Harbor garage. White sedan. Two occupants. Cooler visible.”

Sato grabbed her jacket. “We’re going.”

Leila stepped forward. “I’m coming.”

Keene looked at her. “No.”

Leila met his gaze. “It’s my organism. It’s my data. If this goes wrong, it’s my name.”

Keene didn’t soften. “That’s why you stay here.”

Ryan stepped in, calm but firm. “Leila, you’re the anchor. If they trigger panic, we need facts. You give facts.”

Leila’s jaw flexed. She didn’t like it. She also didn’t argue.

Sato turned toward the door. “Ryan, with me.”

Ryan followed, mind already splitting into two tracks.

Track one was the harbor. The cooler. The staged escape.

Track two was the inbox.

The leverage would arrive while cameras rolled.

That was how it always worked.

They drove with no sirens.

Keene insisted on it. The city didn’t need a parade. It needed containment.

Baltimore traffic slid past under gray winter light. People walked with coffee and earbuds, unaware they sat on the edge of someone else’s story.

At the harbor garage, Keene’s team moved like they owned the shadows. They fanned out between pillars and parked cars, black jackets blending into concrete.

Ryan stepped out of the SUV and felt the air off the water. Cold. Sharp. Honest.

Sato stood beside him, eyes scanning.

“Where?” she asked.

A voice in her earpiece answered. “Level two. East ramp.”

They moved down a stairwell.

Their footsteps sounded loud in the empty space.

At the bottom, Ryan saw the sedan.

White. Clean. Ordinary.

It sat near a pillar with a dented yellow guardrail. The driver’s door stood cracked open, like the person inside had just stepped out.

A hard-sided cooler sat in the back seat.

Biohazard sticker facing outward.

Perfect for the camera.

Keene’s voice came low. “Hold.”

Two operators approached the sedan from opposite angles. One covered the front. One covered the rear.

Ryan watched the garage like it could breathe.

He noticed a man leaning on a pillar forty yards away. Hoodie. Phone raised. Filming.

Not hiding. Performing.

Sato saw him, too.

She didn’t rush. She didn’t shout.

She stepped forward at a steady walk and lifted her badge so the phone camera could see it.

“Put the phone down,” she said.

The hoodie man smiled. “Tell them it’s out.”

Sato’s voice stayed flat. “Put it down.”

He didn’t.

Keene’s operator moved fast and took the phone from his hand with one clean motion. The hoodie man jolted, then froze when he saw the muzzle pointed at the floor near his feet.

“Hands,” the operator said.

The hoodie man raised his hands, still smiling. “Too late.”

Ryan felt the phrase land like a hook.

Too late usually meant something else was already in motion.

Sato turned to the sedan. “Open the cooler.”

Keene’s operator approached the back door and opened it slowly. He lifted the cooler with gloved hands and set it on the concrete.

He didn’t pop latches. He didn’t rush. He treated it like it mattered.

Then he looked up.

“It’s not sealed.”

Sato stepped closer and looked at the latches.

They were closed.

But the tamper strip was missing.

Ryan’s stomach tightened. “They want us to open it on camera.”

Sato nodded once. “They want the image.”

Keene’s voice came over the radio. “Don’t open it here.”

Sato looked at Ryan. “If we don’t open it, they say we’re hiding.”

Ryan stared at the hoodie man.

The man looked back, pleased with himself.

Ryan walked closer until he stood a few feet away.

“Who sent you?” Ryan asked.

The hoodie man shrugged. “People who tell the truth.”

Ryan kept his voice even. “You don’t care what’s inside. You care what it looks like.”

The hoodie man’s smile widened. “It looks like you lost control.”

Ryan nodded. “That’s the script.”

The hoodie man tilted his head. “It’s the truth.”

Ryan leaned in slightly. “Truth doesn’t need props.”

The hoodie man’s eyes flicked toward the cooler.

Ryan followed the flick.

Sato’s phone buzzed again.

She checked it, then her face tightened.

“What?” Ryan asked.

Sato turned the screen toward him.

An email had arrived in Hale’s inbox, forwarded to her team.

The subject line was blunt.

SECOND WAVE

The body was shorter than it should have been.

WE HAVE YOUR MODEL.

WE HAVE YOUR RUNS.

WE HAVE YOUR KEYS.

PAY TO KEEP IT QUIET.

REFUSE AND WE SELL IT, THEN WE RELEASE IT.

A file attached.

A sample.

Proof.

Leila’s voice came through Sato’s earpiece, tight with fury. “They attached internal outputs. That’s real.”

Ryan felt the cold settle deeper.

This wasn’t a prank anymore. It wasn’t a rumor wave.

It was extortion.

Sato stared at the email, then looked back at the cooler.

“This is theater to amplify the threat,” she said.

Keene’s voice cut in. “They want the mayor, the governor, and the CDC on a podium. They want panic. That panic is the lever.”

Ryan nodded. “They want buyers to believe it’s urgent.”

Sato’s eyes sharpened. “So we deny them the image.”

Keene answered, “We move the cooler to a controlled space. We cut the feed. We arrest the actors. We stay quiet.”

The hoodie man laughed, as if he heard them.

“Too late,” he said again. “It’s live.”

Ryan looked up.

A small drone hovered near the garage’s open edge, just above eye level. It held position like a floating witness. A red light blinked. Streaming.

Keene’s operator swore under his breath and raised a hand, signaling.

Two more operators moved, fast and precise. One angled toward the drone’s operator, who stood near a stairwell with a controller. A young man, nervous, eyes wide.

The other operator stepped into the drone’s line of sight and lifted a black panel, blocking the camera with a flat wall of nothing.

The drone wobbled.

Then it drifted upward and away, like it was afraid.

The young operator shouted, “Hey!”

Keene’s man took the controller from his hands.

The young operator’s face fell.

He looked at Sato. “They said it was activism.”

Sato didn’t soften. “It’s a crime scene.”

Ryan’s phone buzzed again.

A second message.

WATCH THE NEWS. YOU CAN’T STOP EVERY CAMERA.

Ryan glanced toward the garage entrance.

Cars still rolled in. People still walked. Someone would film with a phone. Someone always filmed.

Keene’s voice came in, steady. “Move the cooler.”

The operator lifted it and carried it toward the SUV.

Sato grabbed the hoodie man by the arm and turned him toward her.

“You’re an accessory,” she said.

The hoodie man smirked. “Accessory to what? You won’t even say what’s inside.”

Sato leaned in, voice low enough that only he heard it.

“I don’t need to say it,” she said. “You’re the one who keeps repeating a line.”

The hoodie man’s smile slipped.

Ryan felt the seam opening.

The line. Too late.

That wasn’t a joke.

That was a cue.

Ryan looked around the garage again.

He scanned for anything else staged for optics.

Then he saw it.

A second cooler.

Smaller.

Left near a trash can by the stairwell.

No biohazard sticker.

No drama.

Just a black case that looked like someone forgot it.

Ryan’s throat went tight. He pointed. “That one.”

Keene’s operator turned. “What?”

Ryan kept his voice calm. “That one is the real trigger. The big one is a prop.”

Sato’s eyes snapped to it. “How do you know?”

Ryan watched the stairwell.

A woman stood halfway up, phone raised, filming the scene below. She didn’t film the big cooler. She filmed the small one.

She kept it just inside frame.

Ryan nodded toward her. “Because that camera cares about it.”

Keene didn’t waste time. “Hold positions.”

An operator moved toward the small case, slow and careful.

The woman in the stairwell backed up one step.

Then another.

Keene’s voice sharpened. “Stop her.”

A second operator sprinted up the stairs.

The woman turned and ran.

Ryan felt his pulse jump.

Sato moved too, chasing the stairwell.

“Don’t let her leave,” she snapped.

The woman hit the landing and nearly slipped. The operator caught her arm and pinned her against the wall.

She fought like she had rehearsed it.

Then she stopped, as if a switch flipped.

She looked at Sato and smiled.

Sato stared back. “Who are you?”

The woman’s eyes were bright with something ugly.

“Your headline,” she said.

Ryan reached the landing and looked past them.

The small case sat near the trash can, quiet and ordinary.

Keene’s voice came through the radio. “Don’t open it.”

Sato nodded, breathing hard. “We won’t.”

Ryan studied the woman’s face.

He didn’t see fear.

He saw commitment.

That scared him more than any canister.

Because commitment didn’t require facts.

It required a cause.

He leaned close to Sato. “This isn’t about biology. It’s about narrative control.”

Sato’s jaw tightened. “Yes.”

Keene’s team secured the stairwell and cleared the level.

They moved the small case to a containment vehicle.

They moved the big cooler, too, still unopened.

They did it without sirens.

Without speeches.

Without a single press conference.

On the drive back, Sato stared at her phone and the extortion email.

Ryan watched the city blur past.

“So what’s the play?” Ryan asked.

Sato’s voice stayed flat. “They want money.”

Keene answered from the front seat. “They want a government admission more than money.”

Ryan nodded. “Money buys the first layer. Admission buys the second.”

Leila’s voice came over the line again, strained. “I checked the sample they attached. It’s ours.”

Ryan closed his eyes for one second.

A theft you could’t undo.

A leak you couldn’t stuff back into a vault.

He opened his eyes and looked at Sato.

“They’re going to sell it,” he said. “And they’ll blame us for whatever comes next.”

Sato didn’t deny it. “Yes.”

Keene’s hands tightened on the wheel. “We cut the pipeline. We find the buyers.”

Ryan leaned back, mind racing.

“They also want chaos,” he said. “Chaos covers transactions. Chaos distracts oversight. Chaos forces leaders to make public statements.”

Sato turned to him. “So we deny chaos.”

Ryan nodded. “We deny the spectacle.”

They reached the Annex and walked into the command room.

Leila stood at the far end, arms crossed, anger holding her upright.

“You stopped it,” she said.

Sato answered, “We stopped the street show.”

Leila’s eyes narrowed. “Street show?”

Ryan stepped closer. “They staged a second ‘escape’ to force panic. It was a follow-on.”

Leila exhaled slowly. “And the real operation?”

Sato held up the phone with the extortion email. “This.”

Leila stared at it, then looked away like it hurt.

“They’re going to use our work as a weapon,” she whispered.

Keene’s voice stayed hard. “They already are.”

The room fell quiet.

The kind of quiet that felt like a door closing.

Ryan looked at Hale, who sat with his head down.

“Your vendor tunnel,” Ryan said. “Your compliance lane.”

Hale didn’t look up. “I didn’t know.”

Ryan kept his tone calm. “You didn’t need to know. You needed to want it.”

Hale flinched, but he didn’t argue.

Leila stepped forward. “What do they want from us, specifically?”

Sato looked at her. “Payment. Silence. And an official statement confirming a breach.”

Leila’s voice sharpened. “We can’t pay.”

Keene said, “We don’t negotiate.”

Ryan watched Leila’s face tighten.

She wasn’t thinking like an agent. She was thinking like a scientist who knew what had left the building.

“Then what?” she asked.

Ryan met her eyes.

“We treat the data as an escaped organism,” he said. “We contain impact. We track spread. We assume it reproduces through networks.”

Sato nodded once. “And we prepare public messaging that doesn’t validate their story.”

Leila swallowed. “But people will still panic.”

Ryan’s voice stayed steady. “Not if we stay ahead of the lie.”

A junior analyst looked up from her laptop, face pale. “Agent Sato.”

Sato turned. “What?”

The analyst swallowed. “More posts are coming. They’re claiming there’s a second outbreak. Different city. Same cooler image.”

Ryan felt his gut tighten.

“Copycat wave,” he said.

Keene’s jaw flexed. “They’ll keep lighting matches.”

Sato stared at the screen, then at Ryan.

“They want us exhausted,” she said.

Ryan nodded. “Exhaustion makes mistakes.”

Leila stepped closer, voice low. “Tell me what to do.”

Ryan looked at her.

He didn’t give her procedures. He didn’t give her a checklist that would teach the wrong person the wrong lesson.

He gave her the truth.

“Hold the facts,” he said. “Don’t let fear write the report.”

Leila nodded, once.

Sato turned to the room. “We shift from containment to counter-operation. We track the extortion channel. We identify the buyers. We cut the narrative feed.”

Keene looked at Ryan. “And if they try a third spectacle?”

Ryan stared at the harbor video still paused on the screen.

The cooler. The hoodie. The perfect framing.

“They will,” he said. “Because they need a crowd.”

Keene’s eyes turned colder. “Then we take the stage away.”

Outside, the Annex hummed with clean air and quiet lights.

Inside, the real breach spread through servers, inboxes, and whispers.

No siren could stop it.

No lock could seal it.

Ryan looked at Sato, then at Leila.

“This isn’t a bio crisis,” he said. “It’s a trust crisis.”

Sato nodded. “And trust is the only thing we can’t rebuild fast.”

The analyst’s screen refreshed again.

Another post. Another cooler. Another city tag.

The second wave had started rolling.

And the people behind it didn’t need an organism to escape.

They just needed the world to believe one had.