The streets blurred past as Sarah drove, weaving through traffic with controlled aggression. Marcus gripped the door handle, the burner phone tight in his other hand.
Eight blocks to Detective James Whitmore's location. Twenty-seven minutes until the suicide protocol completed.
"Tell me about Whitmore," Sarah said, running a red light.
"9th Precinct. Homicide. Former Marine. Two tours in Iraq. Good cop." Marcus checked the phone again. "We worked a case together once. Solid guy."
"Married?"
"Divorced two years ago. Ellis sent his file. He volunteered for Meridian eighteen months after PTSD and depression."
Just like Marcus. Just like all of them. Broken people looking for a fix, and Devereaux had offered a solution that turned them into weapons.
"What's the plan?" Marcus asked.
"Stop him from killing himself. Everything else is secondary."
They pulled up to Whitmore's building six minutes later. Five-story walkup, peeling paint, bars on ground-floor windows. The kind of place cops lived when divorce took half their pension.
Sarah killed the engine. "Third floor, apartment 3C. No sirens, no backup."
"Agreed." Twenty-one minutes left.
The building's main door was propped open with a brick. Inside, the stairwell smelled like mildew and old cooking. They took the stairs two at a time, moving quietly despite the urgency.
Third floor. Marcus counted doors until he found 3C at the end of the hallway.
No sound from inside.
Sarah positioned herself on one side of the door, weapon drawn. Marcus took the other side, wishing he had a gun. But Ellis hadn't trusted him with one yet.
Sarah knocked. "Detective Whitmore? CPD. We need to talk."
Nothing.
"Whitmore. This is about Meridian."
Still silence.
Marcus leaned close, listening. No movement. No television. Just quiet.
Sarah met his eyes. 'Kick it?'
Marcus nodded.
Sarah stepped back and drove her boot into the door. The frame splintered. One more kick and it crashed open.
They swept inside. Living room with a sagging couch, coffee table covered in empty beer bottles. Kitchen barely big enough for one person. Hallway leading deeper into the apartment.
"Clear," Sarah whispered, moving toward the hallway.
They checked the bathroom first. Empty. That left the bedroom.
The door was closed. Sarah opened it slowly.
James Whitmore sat on the edge of his bed, service weapon in hand, barrel pressed against his temple. His eyes were open but empty, staring at nothing. Finger on the trigger.
"Whitmore." Sarah kept her weapon trained but didn't advance. "Put the gun down."
No response. Whitmore's hand was steady, no trembling. Just waiting for permission to pull the trigger.
Marcus stepped forward slowly, hands raised. "Detective Whitmore James. I'm Marcus Kane. I know what's happening to you. I know about Meridian. You're not in control right now, but you can fight it."
Nothing. Whitmore's finger tightened on the trigger.
"Marcus." Sarah's voice was tight. "We're running out of time."
Seventeen minutes left.
"James, listen to me. They turned you into something else at Meridian. But you're still in there. I know because I was activated too. I know what it feels like."
Whitmore's eyes flickered. Just for a second.
"That's it." Marcus moved closer. "You're watching this happen. You don't want to do this. They're making you."
"Marcus…."
"He won't pull it." Marcus hoped that was true. "James. Your ex-wife Rachel. She remarried six months ago. You told yourself you were happy for her, but that was a lie. You were devastated. That's why you went to Meridian."
Whitmore's hand began to shake slightly.
"But this isn't stopping pain. This is letting them erase you. You think Rachel wants to hear you ate your gun?"
Whitmore's mouth moved. His lips formed a word: 'Please.'
"I'm here." Marcus took another step, close enough to touch the gun now. "I'm going to help you fight this. But you have to push back against whatever voice is telling you to pull that trigger."
"Protocol..." Whitmore's voice was barely audible. "Protocol demands... completion..."
"Fuck the protocol." Marcus was right there now. "You're a Marine. You don't take orders from some corporate psychopath. You're James Whitmore. Detective. That's who you are. Not someone's weapon."
Whitmore's finger eased off the trigger slightly. His eyes found Marcus's face, and for the first time, there was a person looking back.
"Help me," Whitmore whispered. "Please. I can hear it. The voice. Telling me to do it."
"I know." Marcus slowly reached for the gun. "But we're going to fight it together."
His fingers closed around the barrel. Whitmore resisted for a moment, then let go with visible effort.
Marcus ejected the magazine, cleared the chamber, and handed everything to Sarah.
Whitmore collapsed forward. Marcus caught him, lowered them both to the floor.
"You're okay. You're safe."
Sarah checked her phone. "Protocol should end in twelve minutes. Once it does, Whitmore should have full control."
"Should?" Marcus looked up.
"The programming wasn't designed to be resisted. Foster's notes didn't say what happens when someone fights through it."
Whitmore groaned, pressing his palms against his temples. "It hurts. Like something's trying to crack my skull open."
"That's your brain fighting the override," Marcus said. "Keep fighting."
Marcus's phone buzzed. Text from Ellis: 'Got three more. Lost two. Five still unaccounted for. How's Whitmore?'
Marcus typed back: 'Alive. Resisting. Need medical.'
'EMTs en route. Get out before local PD arrives.'
"We need to go," Marcus told Sarah. "Ellis has EMTs coming."
"We're not leaving him."
"We have to. If I get picked up again, there's no getting out." Marcus looked down at Whitmore. "James. Help is coming. FBI knows what happened. They'll protect you."
Whitmore grabbed Marcus's arm. "The others. Devereaux will kill us all."
"We're working on it."
"You don't understand." Whitmore's eyes were clearer now. "I remember things. From my activations. And one of them, I killed another cop. Detective Maria Gonzalez from the 14th. Eight months ago in an alley. Made it look like a robbery."
Sarah and Marcus exchanged glances.
"How many?" Sarah asked quietly. "How many people did you kill?"
"I don't know. Ten? Fifteen? Every time I try to remember, it's like looking through fog." Whitmore released Marcus's arm. "You need to stop Devereaux. Before he uses the rest of us again."
Sirens were getting closer.
"We will," Marcus promised. "But right now, focus on staying alive and staying in control."
Whitmore nodded weakly.
Marcus and Sarah stood. Maybe ninety seconds before EMTs arrived.
"Back stairs?" Sarah asked.
"Back stairs."
They left Whitmore on his bedroom floor, alive and fighting, and disappeared into the stair well just as the first ambulance pulled up outside.
One saved.
Five still missing.
And somewhere in the city, those five cops were following their final orders, marching toward death with no memory of choosing to die.