Molly adjusted the focus on her tactical binoculars, squinting through the windshield of their rusted Ford Econoline. The suburban lawn across the street was a battlefield of discarded juice boxes, party streamers, and terrified grass. To the average observer, it was a birthday party for a six-year-old. To Molly, it was a vault waiting to be cracked. "I’ve got visual on the primary asset table," Molly whispered, her voice dropping to a gravelly register usually reserved for espionage thrillers. "It’s stacked high. I see rectangular boxes. Wrapped tight. Could be the motherlode." Bill crumpled a bag of store-brand pork rinds and wiped grease on his jeans. "It’s a kid’s party, Mol. It’s probably board games and knock-off Action Men. We’re about to commit a felony for Chutes and Ladders." "Don't underestimate the target, William. That kid is named Timmy. Timmy is an only child. His parents drive a Tesla. That gift table is the Fort Knox of suburbia." Bill sighed, leaning back in the driver's seat. "I feel bad. Taking candy from a literal baby." "He’s six. He’s not a baby. He’s a mark. And look at the security detail. You see the Clown?" "The guy making balloon animals?" "That’s an operative. Look at his shoes. Too big for running, but perfect for stomping. If we trigger an alarm, Mr. Jingles is the muscle. He’ll take you down with a squeaky hammer before you can reach the van." "He’s wearing a red nose, Molly." "Camouflage. Now, what’s the status on the extraction vehicle?" "The van? It’s running. Though the muffler is making that weird coughing sound again." Molly lowered the binoculars and glared at him. "We need stealth, Bill. If we have to execute a hard exit through the bouncy castle, I need this engine to purr like a kitten, not wheeze like a smoker." "I’m not driving through a bouncy castle. It takes ten minutes to deflate those things." "It is a valid tactical diversion! Now, listen. Phase one: I create a distraction. I’m going to release the feral raccoon I trapped this morning near the punch bowl." Bill choked on a pork rind. "You have a raccoon in the back? Is that the scratching noise?" "His name is Bandit. He’s our inside man. Once chaos ensues, you go in. You’re wearing the costume." "No. Absolutely not." "Complete the mission, Bill. The costume is non-negotiable." "It’s a giant purple dinosaur suit. I can’t run in that. I can barely breathe in that. Why can’t I just wear a ski mask?" "Because a ski mask screams burglary! A purple dinosaur screams hugs and joy. You waddle in, grab the loot via the dorsal sack, and waddle out. No one questions the dinosaur." "The dad at the grill is looking this way." Molly ducked below the dashboard. "He spotted us! Abort visual! Did he see the raccoon?" "He’s just checking his burgers, Molly. And the raccoon is currently eating through the upholstery." "Fine. We move now. Put on the head. Remember, grab the big boxes first. If a child latches onto your leg, shake them off gently. We are professionals, not monsters." Bill picked up the grandiose purple foam head, staring into its dead, plastic eyes. "I went to prison for safe-cracking. I rubbed elbows with counterfeiters. Now I’m stealing Legos from a kindergartner while dressed as a prehistoric error." "The Lego Millennium Falcon retails for eight hundred dollars, Bill. Put on the head."