Molly adjusted the binoculars, the lenses smudged with grease from their stakeout donuts. The target was a suburban backyard transformed into a chaotic kaleidoscope of streamers and screaming toddlers for Timmy’s sixth birthday. It was the score of the century, colloquially known as the Sugar Rush Job. Bill was sweating through his black tactical turtleneck, checking his stopwatch against the rhythm of the hired magician’s mediocre card tricks. He unrolled a blueprint of the bouncy castle, which looked suspiciously like a placemat from a family diner. The clown has a tear-away car, Bill whispered, trembling. Molly ignored his anxiety, focusing on the pile of brightly wrapped boxes stacked precariously on the patio table. It was a goldmine of high-end plastic, likely featuring the latest battery-operated noisemakers and perhaps, if the intel held up, a deluxe building block set. The extraction required surgical precision to avoid the sticky hands of the sugar-crashed guests. Focus. Is the cake chocolate or vanilla? Molly asked. Bill squinted at the frosting distribution. Vanilla. But the pony bites, he replied. Molly nodded grimly. They would need to deploy the carrot countermeasures immediately.