Molly slouched against the park bench, binoculars pressed to her eyes. "Target acquired. Bouncy castle in the backyard, approximately fifteen ankle-biters running amok." "How many presents?" Bill asked, adjusting his fake mustache. "Jackpot. I count at least thirty packages on the gift table." "Excellent. What's our cover story again?" Molly lowered the binoculars. "Seriously? We've been over this twelve times." "Thirteen's my lucky number." "You're Bingo the Clown's assistant. I'm the face painter who got stuck in traffic." "Right, right." Bill tugged at his polka-dot bow tie. "Remind me why I have to wear this ridiculous outfit while you get normal clothes?" "Because you lost the coin toss, remember? Besides, you've got the perfect clown physique." "What's that supposed to mean?" "Nothing. Very athletic. Very non-clown-like." Molly smirked. "Now, once we're inside, you'll distract the kids with balloon animals—" "I don't know how to make balloon animals!" "Then fake it. Make balloon worms. Kids are stupid; they'll clap for anything." Bill frowned at a sedan pulling into the driveway across the street. "Heads up. We've got movement." "That's just another parent dropping off their kid. More presents for us." Molly rubbed her hands together. "As I was saying, while you're mangling balloons, I'll be painting faces near the gift table. When I give the signal—" "Which is?" "I'll paint a kid's face to look like you." "That's just mean." "Focus, Bill. When you see mini-you, you'll announce it's time for the super special treasure hunt—" "Ooh, I like treasure hunts!" "Not now, Bill. You'll lead them all to the front yard while I load the presents into our van out back." "What if someone notices the presents are gone?" "That's why we're replacing them with the decoys." Molly patted the duffel bag at her feet. "Thirty boxes wrapped identically, filled with Brussels sprouts." "Brussels sprouts? That's diabolical." "Thank you. I thought it added a nice touch." "Wait, what if the birthday kid wants to open presents before we execute?" "Then you improvise. Spill juice on yourself. Pretend to choke on a cake. Start a conga line. I don't care, just buy me time." "I'm not comfortable with the choking thing. My Aunt Linda actually choked once—" "Bill!" "Sorry. Nervous habit." Molly checked her watch. "Party started ten minutes ago. Fashionably late is our sweet spot." She stood, shouldering her face-painting kit. "Remember, we're professionals. We've stolen from museums, banks, casinos—" "This feels different though." "How?" "Well, it's kids." "Kids who are about to learn a valuable life lesson about trusting strangers in bow ties." "When you put it that way, we're basically educators." "Exactly. Now let's go ruin a birthday party." They crossed the street, Bill's oversized shoes squeaking with each step. At the front door, Molly rang the bell and plastered on her brightest smile. "Showtime," she whispered. "I should've worn the bigger shoes," Bill muttered. "Too late now. Look alive, here comes the mom." The door swung open.