“Alright, so the plan is: we hit the bouncy castle first, then work our way to the pinata, and finally, the presents,” Molly said, tracing a finger across the crumpled invitation. “The target is a six-year-old’s birthday, maximum sugar rush, maximum chaos.” Bill, perched on a worn armchair, adjusted his fake mustache. “Presents, Molly. We are there for the presents. Not the bouncy castle. Not the pinata. Unless the pinata is full of cash. Is it full of cash?” “No, Bill, it’s full of… oh, it’s full of candy, actually. We can divvy that up later. It’s got a picture of a unicorn on it. Sparkles and everything. It’ll be a good distraction.” “A unicorn pinata,” Bill Deadpanned. “My career has reached its peak. From Fort Knox to this. This is the life.” “Don’t be so dramatic. A children’s party is the perfect cover. Who suspects two adults in the corner with party hats, pretending to be utterly charmed by a magic show involving a very sad rabbit?” “I suspect two adults in the corner with party hats, pretending to be utterly charmed by a magic show involving a very sad rabbit. That sounds like a couple of creeps, Molly. We need a better cover.” “We’ll be ‘relatives of the birthday boy.’ We’ll loudly complain about the cost of helium balloons and subtly pocket all the gift bags. It’s foolproof.” “Foolproof, unless the birthday boy’s real relatives are there and notice two strangers with an unnatural interest in the gift table. What if his Aunt Mildred is a black belt in karate? Or his Uncle Barry is an ex-bouncer with a short fuse and a penchant for interpretive dance fighting?” Molly rolled her eyes. “You worry too much. We’ll blend in. We’ll be charming. We’ll offer to help cut the cake, and then while everyone’s distracted by the cake, we’ll make our move. I’ve even prepared diversionary tactics.” She pulled out a small, brightly colored squirt gun. Bill stared at the squirt gun. “That’s your diversionary tactic? A squirt gun? Are we going to have a water fight with six-year-olds, Molly? Because I feel that might be counterproductive to the whole ‘stealing presents’ agenda.” “It’s not just *a* squirt gun, Bill. It’s a *high-powered* squirt gun. Imagine the chaos when everyone’s suddenly soaked! Instant disarray. Perfect for a quick grab and dash.” “Or instant suspicion. Imagine a dozen parents all looking at the two adults brandishing a squirt gun and then at the suddenly missing presents. I’m thinking less ‘covert operation’ and more ‘swift apprehension by angry parents’.” “You’re such a pessimist. Think of it as a target-rich environment. All those little hands reaching for cake, all those eyes fixed on the magician’s terrible card tricks. It’s a symphony of distraction!” “More like a cacophony of screaming children and over-caffeinated adults. What’s the escape route, by the way? Because if we’re relying on a squirt gun and the element of surprise, I’m going to need a very quick escape route.” “The back gate. Through the flowerbeds. It leads directly to the getaway van. I’ve parked it two blocks away, disguised as an ice cream truck.” Bill slowly removed his fake mustache. “An ice cream truck.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Molly, sometimes I wonder if you’re trying to get us arrested, or just really, really want a scoop of pistachio.”