The Ironhowl X4 rolled silently into the warehouse lot at 4:02 AM. The fog had settled low over the asphalt, wrapping the crates and pallet stacks in a ghostly film of moisture. Raven parked without headlights, cut the engine, and stepped out into the still morning air. Not a single person was on-site—just as she planned.
No security guards. No dock workers. Just her.
She moved through the lot like a shadow, boots making only the faintest noise on the wet concrete. Inside the main structure, the overhead lights flickered sluggishly to life. Dozens of crates stood in neat rows, tagged with delivery receipts, barcodes, and red tape. Every single one of them had been paid for with her father's black credit card.
First things first.
She slipped into the security office, sat in the chair like she'd been there for years, and booted up the warehouse's terminal system. Her fingers tapped with mechanical speed, eyes scanning every log and purchase record. Within minutes, the transaction history for the past two weeks was gone.
Purchase orders—deleted.
Delivery manifests—wiped.
All backup logs—scrubbed.
The footage from external cameras? Overwritten with an empty loop. The internal floor sensors? Silenced.
No one would be able to trace this back to her. Not now. Not in six days.
William Salvatore built his empire on ruthlessness. groceries. Military surplus. Firearms—both licensed and black market and drug sales among numerous other things. He was a self-made king, a tyrant in a tailored suit. He ran it all from a high-rise with imported tile floors and a fridge full of wine he couldn't pronounce.
And she was going to rob every inch of it.
Raven stood up and walked out onto the warehouse floor. The system responded instantly.
The first row of supplies blinked out of existence. Stacked crates of frozen meat, raw seafood, and vegetables vanished one by one. Bulk bags of rice, pallets of beans, cartons of oil and spices followed.
Next came the generators. Industrial-grade, diesel-fed monsters with enough output to power a small city block. She absorbed five. Then ten. Then the portable models—quiet units, solar panels, backup fuel tanks.
Then came the tools. Boxes of hand-cranked grinders, medical kits, sewing machines, solar lanterns, water filtration tablets. Pet food in 50-pound bags. Toothpaste. Razors. Paper. Matches. Batteries. Tape.
"You can never have too many backup generators," she murmured. "Or toothbrushes."
By 4:45 AM, the warehouse was bare.
She stepped back into the Ironhowl and checked the map.
Next stop: the five biggest grocery stores owned by her father William.
MegaMart was his pathetic attempt to sell food on a large scale, and the sad part was it worked thanks to her.
Each store is the size of a football field, a warped parody of a super store—with blue and green signage that flickered above cracked concrete entrances. She had keys to all of them. William made sure of that—gave her every alarm code, forced her to work overtime as unpaid labor, threatening to cut off her water if she forgot a single security schedule.
At each store, she pulled in, unlocked the door, and disabled the security system in under three minutes.
Then came the purge.
Aisles of shampoo, tampons, pads, deodorant, conditioner. Gone.
Cleaning chemicals. Laundry soap. Toilet paper. Gone.
Frozen steaks, fish fillets, ice cream, butter. Gone.
Dry goods. Pet food. Diapers. Protein powder. Dog leashes. Nail polish. Gone.
She even took the freezer walls.
Shelves ripped off the tile.
Checkouts. Refrigerators. The security panels.
She absorbed everything that wasn't bolted down—and most of what was.
By 6:30 AM, she was pulling out of the fifth and final store. At 7:00 AM, a store manager arrived to open for cleaning staff.
He opened the door, took three steps in, and began screaming.
In a downtown high-rise across the city, William Salvatore's phone rang.
He answered on speaker, pacing in his office, tie loose around his neck.
"What?"
"Sir—it's gone. Everything. The whole MegaMart on Riverside—empty. Like, every item. Not even a shelf is left. It's just... walls."
William blinked.
"What the fuck do you mean the store is empty?"
"I mean someone took all of our inventory. Overnight! How is this even possible?" The manager asked.
William hung up on him and immediately called Raven.
It rang once. Then went to voicemail.
He called again. Same result.
"Where the hell have you been the last four days?" he shouted into the phone. "You're supposed to handle this crap! This is your job! I put you in charge of store security for a reason!"
He paced in furious circles, voice rising.
"You ungrateful bitch. I gave you food. I let you live in the coatroom. I gave you a sleeping bag—one with double insulation!"
The office assistant standing in the doorway slowly stepped back as William kept ranting.
"That room under the stairs is a luxury. Where else am I gonna keep my boots? I need them cleaned, and Raven has a perfect little corner! Mud, rain, blood—she has the time to scrub it all off my boots. I could've made her sleep outside."
He stabbed the call button again.
"When she gets back, I'm taking the damn sleeping bag. She can sleep on the floor. She always comes back. She's got nowhere else to go. And I'll make damn sure she never does."
Back in the Ironhowl, Raven watched the call flash across the screen.
She sent it straight to voicemail.
Not a word. Not a thought. Just focus.
She checked the map again.
7:20 AM.
Her next target was coming up fast.
Guns R' Us.
The biggest legal firearms retailer in the state. Attached warehouse. Military-grade distribution license. Run, owned, and built by William Salvatore.
The Ironhowl rumbled toward the horizon.
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