Molly adjusted the tactical binoculars, squinting through the dense rhododendrons at the suburban fortress across the street. To the untrained eye, 42 Maple Drive was merely a split-level ranch hosting a chaotic celebration of turning six, complete with a terrifyingly unstable bouncy house. To Molly, however, it was the score of the month. A mountain of brightly wrapped boxes sat unguarded on a folding picnic table, a veritable treasure trove of plastic robotics and sticky slime kits just waiting to be liberated. She elbowed Bill, who was currently trying to extract a melted chocolate bar from the pocket of his stealth vest. He looked less like a master criminal and more like a raccoon caught in a dumpster, but he was the best getaway driver within a three-block radius. Do you see the scary clown? Bill whispered. Molly sighed, lowering the lenses to glare at him. The entertainer was twisting a balloon into a sad approximation of a dachshund. He was the only security detail, armed with nothing but a seltzer bottle and crippling debt. He is just a diversion, Bill. His painted eyes follow me. Forget the clown. Watch the cake, Molly hissed. Once the inevitable sugar crash hit, the parents would be too distracted by mass tantrums to notice two fully grown adults army-crawling toward the patio. It was a foolproof plan.