The surveillance van smelled faintly of stale espresso and anxious sweat, a scent profile Molly had come to associate with high-stakes extraction jobs. She unrolled the architectural blueprints of the suburban split-level on the dashboard, weighting down the corners with a half-eaten donut and a heavy-duty flashlight. Outside, the mid-afternoon sun beat down on the impeccably manicured lawn of 42 Maple Drive, where the commotion of the festivities was reaching a fever pitch. Balloons bobbed menacingly in the breeze, tethered to the mailbox like warning buoys. Talk to me, Bill, Molly commanded, not looking up from the schematic. What is the situation on the ground? Bill, squeezed into the passenger seat with a pair of high-powered binoculars pressed against his face, adjusted the focus ring. It is ugly, Mol. We have got a confirmed visual on the asset pile. It is massive. I am seeing oversized boxes wrapped in shiny foil. Definitely high-value electronics. But the security is tighter than the Louvre on a Tuesday. Give me specifics. Who are we dealing with? We have a level-four distraction unit in play, Bill said, his voice dropping to a hush. Professional clown. Goes by the alias Bozo. He is currently making balloon animals with terrifying efficiency. If he spots us, he will alert the parents. Plus, there is a roving patrol unit. The Golden Retriever? Buster, Bill confirmed grimly. He is a good boy, Molly. A very good boy. He could lick us to death before we even reach the patio. Molly tapped the blueprint with a gloved finger. We have countermeasures for the canine. That is what the pockets full of bacon are for. What about the civilians? Sugar crash imminent, Bill reported, checking his watch. They just cut the cake. I give it ten minutes before the glucose levels spike and drop. That is our window. When the tantrums start, we move. Copy that. Entry point? I recommend the side gate. The latch is faulty; I scouted it last week pretending to be a Jehovah’s Witness. We slip in behind the bouncy castle, neutralize the gift table, and egress through the bushes. Molly nodded, her eyes narrowing as she stared at the pile of brightly colored boxes sitting innocently on the folding table. It was the score of a lifetime. Robot dogs, remote-controlled cars, perhaps even a tablet. Remember, Bill, we leave the cards, Molly said seriously. We are thieves, not monsters. Let the kid know who sent the stuff we are stealing. You have a strange moral compass, boss. We adhere to the code. Now, put on your mask. It is party time. Molly pulled a balaclava over her face, though it was bright neon pink to blend in with the party theme. She checked the loadout in her duffel bag: an empty burlap sack, a grapple gun made from a modified Nerf blaster, and a noisemaker to create a diversion if things went south. The tension in the van was thick enough to cut with a plastic knife. They watched the unsuspecting seven-year-olds frolic in the yard, unaware that two master criminals were about to liberate them of their capitalist burdens. The plan was solid, the team was ready, and the cake was chocolate. Nothing could go wrong.