Molly squinted through the binoculars at the suburban house across the street, where a dozen minivans were disgorging small humans in party attire. Balloon animals twisted in the front yard breeze like colorful DNA strands gone wrong. "Tell me again why we're doing this?" Bill asked, adjusting his fake mustache for the third time in as many minutes. "Because, William, that's not just any birthday party. That's Timmy Henderson's eighth birthday spectacular, and his daddy owns the biggest tech company in the state." "So?" "So those aren't regular presents under that bouncy castle. I heard Mrs. Henderson telling her yoga instructor they got him a gaming system that hasn't even been released yet. Plus, every kid coming to this party has millionaire parents." Bill scratched his head, dislodging his toupee slightly. He'd insisted on the disguise despite Molly pointing out that seven-year-olds rarely conducted facial recognition surveillance. "But they're kids, Molly. We're gonna steal from kids?" "We're redistributing wealth. Think of it as an economics lesson." "That's the dumbest thing you've ever said, and you once told me birds were government spies." "That was taken out of context." A clown car pulled up to the house, and Molly watched with growing concern as not one, not two, but seventeen clowns emerged from the tiny vehicle. They carried an alarming number of balloon animals and what appeared to be a cannon. "Slight complication," she muttered. "Clowns?" Bill's voice climbed an octave. "You didn't mention clowns. I hate clowns. Remember what happened in Tucson?" "That was hardly my fault. How was I supposed to know that traveling circus was actually an FBI sting operation?" "The giant banner that said 'Definitely Not an FBI Sting Operation' should have been a clue!" Molly lowered the binoculars and turned to face her partner. Bill had gone pale beneath his dollar-store disguise, making him look like a haunted mannequin having an existential crisis. "Look, we stick to the plan. You create a distraction by the bouncy castle, I slip in through the back during cake time, grab the gift table, and we're gone in three minutes." "What kind of distraction?" "I don't know, do something kid-friendly. Juggle. Make a funny face. Pretend to be a pizza delivery guy who's lost." "I can't juggle!" "Then learn! We have—" Molly checked her watch, "—forty-seven minutes until cake time." Bill stood up, pacing in the back of their van between surveillance equipment and empty pizza boxes from last night's stakeout. His toupee had now migrated to cover his left ear. "This is insane. We've robbed banks, casinos, that one museum with the cursed diamonds. But this? This crosses a line." "Those cursed diamonds were fake, by the way." "What?" "Focus, Bill! Are you in or out?" Through the window, the birthday boy's eager face pressed against the glass, scanning the pile of wrapped presents like a tiny, sugar-fueled dragon guarding its hoard. Molly felt a twinge of something that might have been conscience but was probably just the gas station sushi from lunch. Bill sighed dramatically, the sound of a man who'd made too many questionable life choices to stop now. "Fine. But I'm not wearing the clown shoes." "Deal."