Bill unrolled the crayon schematic across the car’s dusty hood. A lopsided sun grinned from one corner. A crude bouncy castle, labeled ‘The Dragon’s Maw,’ dominated the yard. He tapped a stick figure wearing a tragic red nose. “Okay. The mark is six-year-old Timothy. The asset pile sits here, under the piñata. High-risk, high-reward.” Molly squinted, tracing a path past a crudely drawn beagle labeled ‘Buster.’ “And security? His dad, who sells insurance? And what on earth is your primary threat?” “That’s Barnaby the Clown. Biggest threat on site. Constant surveillance. Unpredictable patterns. I have a countermeasure.” From his pocket, he produced a small, inflatable hammer that squeaked pathetically when he squeezed it. “You’re not serious. You’re going to neutralize a professional entertainer with a squeaky hammer?” “Psychological warfare, Molly. It’s what he’ll least expect. We move during the cake-cutting. Maximum sugar-induced distraction.” She eyed the map, where stick figures labeled “US” hid behind a wobbly plastic flamingo. “This is the dumbest plan we have ever had. Truly.” “Financially, perhaps. But in terms of pure, chaotic audacity? It’s a masterpiece.” He beamed, his expression deadly serious.