Molly peered through the binoculars at the bouncy castle in the Henderson's backyard, watching a dozen sugar-fueled seven-year-olds careening off the inflatable walls like pinballs. The present table groaned under the weight of wrapped boxes, gift bags, and what appeared to be an entire toy store's worth of merchandise. "Target acquired," she muttered into her earpiece. "Copy that, Eagle Eye," Bill's voice crackled back. "What's our entry point?" "The side gate's unlocked. Parents keep using it to sneak out for smoke breaks." "Perfect. What about security?" Molly swung the binoculars toward the adults clustered around the patio. "One exhausted dad manning the grill, three moms on their fourth mimosa, and a grandmother who's been asleep in a lawn chair for twenty minutes." "Formidable opposition," Bill said. "Good thing I wore my tactical cargo shorts." "Please tell me you're joking." "They have seventeen pockets, Molly. Seventeen. That's a lot of present-carrying capacity." She lowered the binoculars and rubbed her temples. After three years of partnership, Bill still managed to surprise her with new depths of ridiculousness. The man had once tried to rob a bank wearing a dinosaur costume because he thought it would be "less suspicious than a ski mask." "Just stick to the plan," she said. "We go in during the cake ceremony. Maximum distraction." "Roger that. Operation Birthday Bandit is a go." "We agreed never to use that name." "Operation Gift Grifter?" "Bill." "Present Pilferer? The Great Toy Heist of—" "Bill, I swear to God." A whoop from the party drew their attention. The birthday boy had just face-planted in the bounce house, triggering a Lord of the Flies-style pile-on from his guests. "Cavalry's here," Bill announced, appearing beside her in full suburban dad camouflage: polo shirt, khaki shorts, and sandals with socks. "You look like you sell insurance." "Thank you. I'm going for non-threatening mediocrity." "Mission accomplished." They crept along the fence line, staying low despite the fact that no one at the party could see past the bounce house chaos. Molly's all-black outfit stood out against the suburban landscape like a ninja at a country club. "You know," Bill whispered, "most criminals rob banks or jewelry stores. We're stealing from seven-year-olds." "Seven-year-olds who won't remember half these toys by next week," Molly countered. "We're basically recycling." "That's one way to justify grand theft Lego." They reached the side gate just as someone inside started the birthday song. Through the slats, Molly could see the crowd migrating toward the patio, leaving the present table gloriously unguarded. "Remember," she said, "in and out in ninety seconds." "Like my last relationship." "That's desperately sad, Bill." "I know. Ready?" Molly nodded, hand on the gate latch. Somewhere in that backyard was enough toy inventory to fund their retirement to a non-extraditing country. All they had to do was steal candy from babies. Literally. "On three," she whispered. "One... two..."