Molly slapped the architectural schematics onto the sticky table of the treehouse. They were actually crayon drawings on construction paper, but to the untrained eye, they detailed the most fortified bouncy castle in the tri-state area. She adjusted her sunglasses, despite the dim lighting of their headquarters, and looked at her partner with steel in her eyes. The target is firmly established at the Johnson residence, Molly said, her voice dropping to a gravelly whisper. Operation Sugar Rush is a go. Bill leaned forward, wiping chocolate frosting from his upper lip. Are we sure about the intel? Last time, you said it was a PlayStation, and I walked away with a knitted sweater and a sense of profound regret. The intel is solid, Molly snapped. I intercepted a communication between the target's mother and the bakery. The cake says Happy Seventh Birthday. Seven-year-olds do not receive sweaters, Bill. They receive high-value plastic assets. She pointed a juice box straw at the map. Here is the kill zone, she continued. The gift table. It is currently guarded by a perimeter of folding chairs and an aunt who asks too many questions. Is it Aunt Linda? Bill asked, terror widening his eyes. Negative. It is Aunt Carol. She has weak knees and poor peripheral vision. Our window is tight. We strike during the Happy Birthday song. Bill nodded slowly, absorbing the gravity of the situation. He checked his pockets to ensure he had the necessary equipment. That gives us roughly thirty seconds, Bill calculated. Maybe forty-five if they do the cha-cha-cha part at the end. Exactly. While the crowd is mesmerized by the open flame on the candles, I will deploy the distraction device in the kitchen. The smoke bomb? A bag of microwave popcorn set to ten minutes. By the time the smoke alarm triggers, the chaos will offer sufficient cover. You flank left, stay low behind the piñata, and secure the largest box. Bill frowned, looking at the schematic. What if the biggest box is a decoy? Remember the Great Diaper Box Incident of last summer? We do not speak of last summer, Molly hissed. You need to feel the weight. Shake it. If it rattles like LEGOs, you grab it. If it feels like clothes, you abort to the secondary target. Which is? The goody bags. That is petty, even for us. This is war, Bill. Timmy Johnson didn't invite me. He claims it was an oversight. I call it a declaration of hostilities. Molly checked her digital watch, the one with the calculator buttons. We move out in five. Did you bring the getaway vehicle? I parked it behind the hedges. Is it the Red Flyer wagon? It is the scooter with the pink tassels. It has better cornering. Molly sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. Fine. Just don't let the streamers get caught in the spokes. If we get apprehended, I am not going back to time-out. I cannot do hard time again, Bill. The boredom changes a woman. Bill pulled his balaclava down. It was a ski mask with a pom-pom on top. I am ready. Let us liberate those toys. For justice, Molly said. For the LEGOs, Bill corrected.