The storage closet was dimly lit, the air thick with dust and the faint scent of bubble bath. Molly brushed a strand of jet black hair from her heavily mascara'd eyes and trained her laser focus on Bill. "I've been staking out this joint for weeks, Bill. The kid's birthday party is tomorrow afternoon. All the ritz-kids in the city will be there, each with a present in hand." Bill, a lanky man with a prominent Adam's apple bobbing nervously, gulped. "Molly, I don't know. It just sounds... wrong. Stealing from kids?" Molly rolled her eyes so hard, she swore she saw her own brain. "First of all, it's not stealing, it's... relocating. Secondly, it's not like these brats are going to miss the latest iPhone or $300 Lego set. Their maids will probably just gift wrap that crap again next year." Bill shifted uncomfortably, his green eyes darting around the small space. "Yeah, but what if we get caught? Kids have a knack for rats, you know?" A wicked grin spread across Molly's full lips. "Is that a challenge? Because you know how I feel about challenges, Billy." Bill's swallow lodged somewhere in his throat and he sputtered. "N-No, not a challenge. I'm just... nervous." Molly sized him up, top to bottom, like a wolf eyeing a juicy lamb chop. "We need to do this, Bill. My bookie is this close, " she held up two fingers, squishing them together," to breaking my kneecaps. I need a big score, and I need you to pull this off with me." Bill's hands began to shake and he wiped his sweaty palms on his faded jeans. "Fine, whatever. You're the boss, Molly. But if we get caught, I'm blaming you." Molly let out a throaty chuckle. "Oh, I like that spark, Billy. Let's just hope you've got the guts to pull this off." Bill muttered something under his breath that sounded an awful lot like, "I hope you get eaten by a bear and shit out in the woods" but Molly just smiled. "Get some rest, champ. Operation Toy Thief goes down tomorrow." She winked and slipped out, leaving Bill to wallow in his own nervous sweat. Inwardly, Molly wasn't as confident as she seemed. Sure, the plan was solid: don ballet costume, saunter in, sweet-talking the oblivious parents while ripping off the gifts. But something about this gig felt wrong. Sticky Fingers Montana had always been one for a clean job: banks, jewelry stores, drunken afluenza conferences. Taking from children was a new low. But Molly had to make her bookie payments, or it'd be her kneecaps on the line. She'd do this one job, then ride off into the Florida sunset. But first, she had to get Bill in line. With a smile, she cracked her knuckles, visions of sugarplums and fat gotcha dances dancing in her head.