Molly flattened the tactical schematics against the dashboard of the rusted Econoline van. It was actually a grease-stained placemat from a local diner with a crude map drawn in red crayon, but to her, it was the master key to the score of the century. She narrowed her eyes at the suburban split-level across the street, where a cluster of balloons bobbed menacingly in the gentle afternoon breeze. Beside her, Bill was hyperventilating into a brown paper bag that until recently had contained his lunch. Review the extraction point again, Molly commanded, not taking her eyes off the target. Bill lowered the bag, his face flushed. We exit through the side gate, traverse the sandbox, and hurdle the azaleas. Wrong, she hissed, tapping the crayon map with a gloved finger. The azaleas are a trap. Too much leaf crunch. We go through the Hydrangea Zone. Do you want to wake the beast? The Golden Retriever is asleep, Molly. I saw him chasing a butterfly earlier. He lacks discipline. That is exactly what he wants you to think. That dog is a sleeper agent. One squeak of a rubber sole and he will be barking coordinates to every neighborhood watch captain in a three-block radius. She adjusted her sunglasses, despite the overcast sky. What is the status on the primary objective? Bill squinted through the telephoto lens of a camera that was missing its battery. He was just using it as a telescope. The pile is growing. I see three boxes that have the distinct rectangular dimensions of the Mega-Racer 5000 set. Also, a suspiciously heavy envelope that smells like savings bonds from a grandmother. Molly cracked her knuckles, the sound loud in the confined space. Good. Here is the play. At fourteen hundred hours, the clown starts making balloon animals. That is our window. While the hostiles are fighting over who gets the long-neck giraffe, we flank the gift table from the rear. I am worried about the sugar crash, Bill said, wringing his hands. If the cake comes out early, the energy levels drop, and we lose our cover noise. Silence is death in a grab-and-go, Mol. I have calculated for the glycemic index. The frosting is buttercream. They will be wired until at least fifteen-thirty. She reached into the back seat and handed him a black mask. Bill held it up to the dim light. Molly, this is a Ninja Turtle mask. It is camouflage! You want to wear a stocking and look like a criminal? We need to look like guests who grew too fast. Put it on. She checked her equipment belt. She had a grappling hook made from twisted coat hangers, a bag of marbles for pursuit evasion, and a juice box for hydration. The tension in the van was thick, smelling primarily of old upholstery and fear. This was the big one. The score that would finally get them enough store credit to buy that flat-screen TV they had been eyeing. Asset approach, Bill whispered, his voice trembling. The mother is bringing out the piñata. The piñata is a decoy! Molly shouted, perhaps too loud. Do not let the papier-mâché distract you. Stick to the plan. We hit the table, we grab the loot, we vanish before the Happy Birthday song hits the second verse. Bill pulled the Raphael mask over his face, the plastic digging into his cheeks. I feel ridiculous. You look like a professional, Molly lied. She shifted the van into neutral so they could roll silently out of the parking spot. Let us go steal some childhood joy.