Molly adjusted her blonde wig in the rearview mirror, scrutinizing her reflection as Bill navigated their get-away vehicle, a rickety old ice cream truck, through the suburban streets. Their mark, a lavish children's birthday bash, was just a few blocks away. "Alright, Bill, run me through the plan one more time," Molly said, tucking a stray lock of wig hair behind her ear. Bill, donning a bright orange jumpsuit and a name tag reading "Mr. Scoop," grinned. "We burst in during the piñata segment, while the parents are distracted by sugar-fueled chaos. You snatch the gifts, I handle the diversion – a choreographed ice cream-themed dance routine to mesmerize the kiddos." Molly raised an eyebrow. "You've been practicing, I hope?" "Oh, I've got the sprinkles shimmy down pat," Bill assured, his eyes twinkling with mischief. As they approached the party venue, Molly's gaze locked onto the banner reading "Happy 8th Birthday, Timmy!" in glittery letters. Her eyes sparkled with anticipation. Tonight, Timmy's friends would be leaving empty-handed.