Molly adjusted the focus on her tactical binoculars, zeroing in on the backyard perimeter. The target was heavily fortified by a white picket fence and a roving patrol unit consisting of one extremely tired Golden Retriever. Beside her in the cramped surveillance van, Bill polished his crowbar with a microfiber cloth, treating the rusting metal like a diamond. The mission was high-stakes: the Johnson twins’ fifth birthday bash. Rumors of a monumental haul, including a limited-edition train set, had circulated through the underworld for weeks. On the folding table between them sat the blueprints, illegally obtained from a disgruntled party planner named Kevin. They outlined the drop zone: the towering gift pile situated dangerously close to the hired entertainment. The entertainer was the wild card; one accidental honk of a red nose would alert the suburban parents sipping Chardonnay. Molly pointed a gloved finger at the bouncy castle. The timing had to be impeccable. They needed to strike exactly during the cake cutting, when the sugar rush created maximum sensory overload. She smoothed her black turtleneck. Professionalism was paramount when robbing toddlers. Molly whispered, "The clown holds the perimeter." Bill shuddered. "Terrifying. Is the tricycle ready?" "Yes. Just avoid the sandbox." "Roger that. I hate sand." Molly nodded.