Molly unfurled the blueprints across the dashboard of the grimy Ford Transit. From outside, the faint, joyful shrieks of six-year-olds filtered through the rusted metal, a chaotic soundtrack to their meticulous planning. Her finger, stained with ink, traced a path from the garden gnome to the patio doors. She’d mapped the location of the cake, the juice box station, and a high-value asset she’d labelled ‘Bouncy Castle’. Bill looked up from his meticulous task of dissecting a sausage roll, crumbs dusting his schematic of the sprinkler system. "The magician is our window. He’s a tactical liability," Molly declared, her voice a low, serious whisper. Bill sighed, a puff of pastry flakes ghosting from his lips. "He’s twelve. His best trick is pulling a tissue from his sleeve." Molly ignored him, circling the face-painting station with a red marker. It was a potential chokepoint. Every professional knew you couldn't be too careful when the target was this saturated with sugar and inadequately supervised chaos. The prize was too great: a mountain of plastic-wrapped, battery-operated nirvana. This was the big one.