Bill lowered the high-powered binoculars, a frown creasing his brow. The inside of their surveillance van—a repurposed ice cream truck that still faintly smelled of strawberry syrup and desperation—was stuffy. Across the leafy suburban street, a torrent of primary colours spilled from the front door of number 23. A banner, sagging tragically in the middle, proclaimed ‘HAPPY 6TH BIRTHDAY TIMMY!’ in wobbly, glitter-glue letters. He could make out the unmistakable silhouette of a bouncy castle in the back garden, its turrets quivering with the force of tiny, sugar-fuelled bodies. “Hostile presence, nine o’clock,” Bill muttered, his voice a gravelly whisper honed by years of imagined danger. “Big shoes, red nose. Looks like a heavy. Possible enforcer.” Molly didn’t look up from the architectural sketch she’d drawn on the back of a pizza menu. “That’s Patches the Clown, Bill. He’s the entertainment. More importantly, he’s our window.” She tapped a greasy finger on the menu, smearing a blob of pepperoni over the conservatory. The ‘vault’ was a corner of the living room, designated by a large ‘X’. Her intelligence, gathered from a five-year-old informant bribed with an ice pop, indicated the target was a shimmering mountain of gifts. The security system consisted of Timmy’s dad, Dave, a man whose primary defensive manoeuvre was falling asleep in an armchair after two sausage rolls. “According to the schedule,” Molly continued, her tone crisp and professional, “Patches begins his ‘Disappearing Hanky’ finale at 15:30 sharp. That creates the diversionary spectacle. All eyes, parental and child, will be on him. We get a forty-five-second window to breach the patio doors.” “Do you think they have fairy bread?” Bill asked, fogging up the passenger window. “With the rainbow hundreds and thousands?” Molly’s sigh was a long, suffering sound that fogged her own side of the windscreen. “We are not here for the nostalgic party snacks, Bill. We are professionals.” “A professional fuels his instrument,” he countered, patting his stomach for emphasis. “My instrument is a temple. And it requires sprinkles.” Molly ignored him, her focus locked on the scene unfolding in the garden. She had synchronised their watches for a heist involving a paddling pool and a treasure chest full of LEGO. She had planned entry and exit routes that accounted for potential juice spills and unscheduled toddler tantrums. Suddenly, a new variable appeared. Patches the Clown, instead of preparing for his act, was now engaged in a frantic, one-sided sword fight with a golden retriever using a balloon cutlass. The dog, tail wagging furiously, had just popped the sword and was now enthusiastically licking the clown’s face paint off. “The diversion is compromised,” Molly hissed, crumpling the pizza menu slightly. “The clown is down! Repeat, the asset is down!” Bill just stared out the window, a look of pure, unadulterated awe on his face. “He’s making the dog a balloon crown. That’s just brilliant customer service.”