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Charlotte had the security guard's wrist twisted behind his back before he finished his first warning. Second loop. She knew his script.
"Gate opens at four," he gasped. "I don't make the—"
She yanked his arm higher. The clipboard clattered to the pavement. "You were here last night. Tuesday night. Twelve guys came through. Who signed them in?"
"Lady, I don't know what you're—"
She pressed his face against the chain-link. "Marcus Wade. Six-two, scar under his left eye. You let him through at eleven forty."
The guard went rigid. That told her enough.
"I wasn't on shift Tuesday." His voice climbed half an octave. "I work Mondays and Wednesdays, that's it, I swear—"
Charlotte let him go. He scrambled backward, hand going to his belt radio. She kicked it out of his grip before he got two words out.
"Sit."
He sat.
She picked up the radio, turned it off, pocketed it. The dock stretched out behind the gate, sixty shipping containers stacked three high. Sodium lights threw orange across the asphalt. The air smelled like diesel and salt water. Last time she'd been here she'd made it nine minutes before Marcus put a round through her chest.
This time she had a twenty-hour head start.
"Who runs security for off-hour access?" she asked.
The guard's eyes flicked toward the main office trailer, fifty yards inside the gate. "Nobody's here right now. You want to file a complaint, you gotta—"
"Name."
"I can't—"
Charlotte crouched in front of him. Close enough to smell the coffee on his breath. "You've got a wedding ring. Nice one. Your wife know you're taking cash to look the other way?"
His mouth opened. Closed.
"Marcus paid you," she said. "Or someone did. You let them through Tuesday night, no log entry, no questions. That about right?"
"I don't—"
"Two hundred? Five?"
His jaw tightened.
"More," Charlotte said. She straightened. "Who set it up? Marcus directly or someone else?"
The guard stared at his knees. The wind off the water cut through her jacket. She'd dressed lighter this loop. Less gear to slow her down if it went bad early.
"Answer me and I'm gone," she said. "You never see me again. Don't answer and I make a call to port authority. They love finding off-book cash payments."
He exhaled through his teeth. "Some guy named Ray. Never met him. He called Friday, offered a grand to let a crew through Tuesday night and keep my mouth shut. Said they were running a surprise audit on container seals."
"Ray give a last name?"
"No."
"Phone number?"
"Blocked."
Charlotte pulled out her own phone, thumbed to a photo. Marcus Wade, three years old, pulled from an encrypted backup. She held it in front of the guard's face. "This him?"
The guard squinted. "Maybe. Hard to say. I never actually saw—"
A crack split the air.
The guard's head snapped sideways. Blood sprayed across Charlotte's knees. He crumpled, half his face gone, the chain-link behind him suddenly painted red.
Charlotte dove left as the second shot punched through the space where her skull had been. She hit the pavement rolling, came up behind the concrete base of the light pole. Her hands were empty. Her Glock was in the car, sixty feet away across open ground.
Stupid. She'd rushed it. Too eager for answers.
Third shot took out the sodium light above her. Glass rained down. The dock went dark except for the spillover from the next row of lights. Rifle. Suppressed. Probably .308 from the sound. Shooter was elevated. She scanned the container stacks. Second tier, southeast corner. Muzzle flash bloom, faint.
"Charlotte."
Marcus's voice. Amplified. He had a bullhorn or a loudspeaker.
"You've got about ninety seconds before port police show up for that gunshot. Want to spend them pinned behind a pole or do you want to hear me out?"
She didn't answer. Her pulse hammered in her throat. The guard's body lay eight feet away, blood pooling around his shoulder. She needed his gun.
"I know you've got questions," Marcus called. His voice echoed off the containers. "I've got some too. Like how you knew to come here Monday instead of Tuesday."
Charlotte's stomach dropped.
"Yeah," Marcus said. "Funny thing. I also woke up this morning with a real clear memory of shooting you tomorrow night. Except tomorrow night already happened, didn't it?"
She stayed low, scanning. The shooter hadn't fired again. That meant Marcus wanted to talk, not finish her. Yet.
"So here's my theory," Marcus continued. "You died. I died, about six seconds after you, courtesy of Ivy's cleanup team. And now we're both back here, Monday morning, getting a do-over. Am I close?"
Charlotte shifted her weight. The guard's belt was just out of reach. She could see the holster. Glock 19. Safety strap still fastened.
"Here's the thing, Charlie. You show up early, you trip different wires. I had to move up my whole timeline because you couldn't just go to the damn meeting like you were supposed to."
She lunged for the guard's gun. Got her hand around the grip, yanked it free, rolled back behind the pole as another shot cracked past. Missed her by inches. Concrete chips stung her cheek.
"Cute," Marcus said. "Now you're armed. Feel better?"
Charlotte checked the chamber. Loaded. Fifteen rounds. She thumbed off the safety.
"Let me save you some time," Marcus called. "You're thinking you'll flank around the container row, get an angle on my shooter, maybe work your way to me. Won't work. I've got three guys on overwatch and I know exactly which route you're going to pick because you already tried it. Last loop. You made it about forty feet before Jackson put one through your hip."
Charlotte's breath hitched. Last loop. He remembered multiple resets. Just like her.
"How many times?" she shouted.
Silence.
Then: "You first."
"Twice," she lied.
"Liar. You've got that look. The one that means you've been chewing on this for a while. I'm guessing four, maybe five."
She didn't answer.
"I'm at three," Marcus said. "And every time, you show up at this dock trying to get cute. Trying to figure out who set you up. Here's a tip—stop looking backward. Start looking at who benefits if we both stay stuck."
Sirens. Distant but closing.
"That's my cue," Marcus said. "And yours. You've got two ways out. The front gate or the service exit on the northwest corner. You're going to pick the service exit because the gate puts you in the open too long. You'll take the frontage road west, ditch the guard's gun in the first storm drain, and be back at your car in four minutes."
Charlotte's skin went cold.
"See you tomorrow, Charlie. Or today. Or whenever the hell this counts as. Oh, and one more thing—"
She was already moving, sprinting for the northwest corner before he finished.
"—you're going to try the service exit anyway," his voice boomed behind her, "because you think I'm bluffing. I'm not. But go ahead. Some lessons you've gotta learn the hard way."
Charlotte hit the corner, saw the service gate. Closed. Chain and padlock. Bolt cutters would take thirty seconds she didn't have. She pivoted, headed for the main gate instead. The sirens were close now. Flashing red and blue lit up the warehouse across the street.
She reached the gate, squeezed through the gap next to the guard shack, and ran.
Behind her, Marcus's laughter crackled over the loudspeaker.
"Wrong door, Charlie. But don't worry. You'll get it right eventually."
She didn't look back.