Molly adjusted the focus on her tactical binoculars, scanning the backyard sector from the safety of the overgrown hedge. The target environment was hostile, teeming with six-year-olds fueled by high-fructose corn syrup and aggressive enthusiasm. In the center of the chaos stood the ultimate objective: a plastic folding table buckling under the weight of wrapped treasure. From her vantage point, she identified the primary threat immediately. A clown, heavily armed with squeaky balloon animals, patrolled the perimeter with the dead eyes of a hawk. Bill lay prone beside her, sweating profusely through his black stealth gear. He unfolded the blueprints, which were actually just a crumpled party invitation he had fished out of a recycling bin. The timing had to be immaculate. They needed to strike during the cake ceremony, using the loud, off-key singing as auditory cover to bypass the bouncy castle. If they were spotted, they would be swarmed by parents, or worse, forced to participate in musical chairs. Molly watched the candles being lit. The flame was the signal. "That clown looks dangerous," Bill whispered, trembling. Molly checked her watch. "We move when they sing." "But the balloon swords..." "Ignore them. Secure the package."