Bill unrolled the stolen blueprints across the diner booth’s sticky formica surface with dramatic flair. It was actually a crudely rendered crayon drawing of the Peterson’s backyard, snatched from their refrigerator earlier. He looked intense, treating the wrinkled paper like the complex schematics for a high-security bank vault. "Target acquisition is fourteen hundred hours," Bill whispered, strictly adjusting his sunglasses. Molly sighed, slowly stirring her lukewarm black coffee to delay looking at him. "The clown arrives at two, Bill. Just say two." "Precision is key. The perimeter is guarded by a Golden Retriever named Buster. He has a weakness for peanut butter." Molly patted her heavy coat pocket. "I bought the chunky kind." Bill nodded solemnly, tracing a gloved finger over a red wax squiggle. "Excellent. The payload is on the picnic table. We extract the gift bags during the piñata frenzy." Molly stared at the markings, rubbing her aching temples. "You realize you are planning a tactical Black Ops insertion into a five-year-old's birthday party?" "These aren't just kids, Molly. They are tiny, sticky surveillance drones. If we get made, we face the ultimate interrogation." "Tantrums," Bill shuddered. "We grab the loot and vanish." "If we get caught?" Bill smirked. "We blame the magician."