Molly crouched behind the brightly painted hedges, her gloved fingers trembling. Bill scanned the backyard, where colorful balloons bobbed and children’s laughter drifted through an open window. The scent of chocolate cake and the tang of spilled punch haunted their senses. Every giggle felt like a warning alarm. They’d pulled off bigger jobs, but this one felt risky and exhilarating. Molly tapped the side of her mask, sending it sliding down her nose. “What if someone spots us?” she muttered. Bill nudged the shed door open an inch. Inside lay party hats, a half-open trunk overflowing with gifts, and a speaker pumping kiddie pop hits. His eyes gleamed at the promise of unguarded loot. He inhaled deeply, savoring adrenaline, salary, and the sweet, sweet irony of robbing toddlers. "Easy, Molly! We’re professionals, remember? We’ve shaken casinos, nicked a diamond under a museum guard’s nose. A children’s party? Piece of cake. We swoop in, grab the loot, and vanish." Bill’s grin was as wide as a safari cat stalking prey. Molly stuffed her last granola bar into a pocket. She adjusted her earpiece, which crackled with half-baked sabotage instructions. The party’s playlist thumped through walls. Outside, a sprinkling of confetti drifted across the yard. In two minutes, the party hat performance would start, and guests would be distracted by a clown juggling plastic swords. "I can’t believe we’re burglarizing a children’s party. Aren’t we supposed to avoid crying witnesses? What if the birthday kid chases us with a gun? Maybe hide behind the pinatas." Molly peeked through the fence slats, counting paper hats and juice boxes. Bill jingled a set of lock picks, his face lit by moonlight and high mischief. The grass was damp under their boots. Inside, children squealed as someone performed magic tricks with colorful scarves. They had timed the popcorn spill for a distraction, but a stray kernel ruined their moment. Bill cursed softly, then gestured to a bathroom window gapped slightly ajar—just wide enough for two nimble thieves. "Next: bathroom window is our express lane. Shimmy through, drop rope, sheet-slide packages to me. Flash that squeaky-toy decoy so they panic. Then regroup at the van. Timing is crucial." Molly exhaled, her chest rising and falling in a tempo that matched the kids’ bouncy castle thumps. Behind her, Bill tested a rope knot under his palm. The smell of frosting and sawdust from the wooden floor mingled in the breeze. A tiny hand slid a confetti popper across the threshold in a prank only a six-year-old mastermind could devise. Stars of helium floated above, lighting the potential crime scene. The moment to spring into action was now. "Ready? No backing out. I hate juvenile hall for clowns. Inside, I’ll plant a smoke-bomb cake. That blast sends parents into chaos. We grab all gifts in ninety seconds flat." "Check the bluebird balloon cluster—escape marker. After the smoke-bomb detonates, tuck gift bags into hedge maze marked on my map. Then rendezvous by oak fence. Operation Sugar Crash is on."