Molly flattened the blueprints for “Bouncy Castle Bonanza” across the van’s dusty dashboard, a crinkled map to untold riches in LEGO and action figures. Her finger, stained with surveillance coffee, traced the infiltration route. The target zone was a shimmering mountain of brightly wrapped boxes, guarded only by a clown with tragically deflating shoes and a seven-year-old on a tactical sugar high. Bill, meanwhile, had the binoculars trained on the sugar-fueled chaos, a wistful look on his face. He wasn't tracking security; he was watching a frantic game of musical statues. The scent of hot dogs and minor childhood betrayal wafted through their open window. “Focus, Bill. What’s the clown’s status?” He lowered the binoculars. “He’s making a giraffe. I always wanted a balloon giraffe.” Molly jabbed a finger at the schematics. “The presents, Bill. Not the inflatable menagerie.” He sighed, picking up his grappling hook, which was just a coat hanger taped to a jumprope. This was their moment. The clown had just started on the surprisingly intricate tail, his attention completely compromised. This job was almost too easy. They were professionals, after all. Professionals who steal from children.