“Alright, Bill, spill it. What's the target?” Molly’s voice was a low rumble, like a cat stretching before a pounce. Bill, a man whose permanent state was 'slightly rumpled,' gestured vaguely with a half-eaten donut. “The Harrison mansion. Today. For little Timmy’s seventh birthday.” Molly’s eyebrows shot up. “A children's party? Bill, we’re not exactly known for our subtle handling of balloons.” “Exactly! Who expects seasoned professionals to be grappling for a Paw Patrol playset?” Bill grinned, a crumb of donut clinging to his upper lip. “The security will be non-existent. Overwhelmed parents, sugar-fueled tykes, a complete chaotic mess. Perfect cover.” Molly considered this. “So, we're blending in with the general mayhem. You'll be the disgruntled clown, I assume?” “Hardly. I’m thinking more… the slightly too enthusiastic magician dad. You, my dear, will be the 'lost relative making a surprise visit.' We hit the present table during the cake cutting. Minimal fuss, maximum presents.” “Presents, Bill, as in… children’s presents. Are we really stooping to stealing Barbies?” Molly deadpanned, though a glint of amusement danced in her eyes. “It's not about the Barbies, Molly. It's about the principle. And the gift cards. Definitely the gift cards.”