Molly slapped the perimeter map onto the dashboard. It was a crayon drawing Bill had bribed a neighbor’s kid to sketch. "The target is turning six," Molly whispered, her voice grave. "Maximum security. We’re talking musical chairs, competitive parents, and a sugar-crazed mob." Bill squinted at the wobbly lines. "Is that a guard dog or a pony?" "It’s a piñata, Bill. Focus. We insert through the bounce house while the clown is making balloon animals." "The bounce house?" Bill asked, wiping grease on his tactical turtleneck. "The static electricity alone could fry our comms." "Wear rubber soles," she snapped. "Once I neutralize the clown with a well-timed whoopee cushion, you sweep the gift table. The Lego sets are priority alpha." Bill nodded solemnly. "What about the cake?" "Forget the cake." "I can’t work on an empty stomach, Mol. It’s buttercream." Molly rubbed her temples, sensing a migraine brewing. "Fine. One slice. But if you get sprinkles on the merchandise, we leave you behind." "Roger that," Bill said, checking the pressure on his Super Soaker. "Operation Birthday Bash is a go." "Put the toy away, Bill. You have zero trigger discipline."