Molly adjusted the focus on her tactical binoculars, squinting through the windshield of their rusted Ford Econoline. Across the suburban street, the Johnson residence was a fortress of pastel balloons and streamers. Target acquired, she said, her voice a gravelly whisper. The asset is currently being moved to the patio table. Bill leaned forward, wiping powdered sugar from his chin. Is it the limited edition Star Wars set? Confirmed, Molly said. Plus three Barbies and what appears to be a drone. We’re talking a street value of at least two hundred bucks, Bill. Focus. Bill sighed, drumming his fingers on the dashboard. I still don’t like the look of security. That golden retriever has been staring at the van for ten minutes. He’s a sleeper agent, Molly dismissed. The real threat is the clown. Look at him. He’s making balloon animals with lethal precision. One wrong move and he creates a sword. I hate clowns, Bill muttered. They don’t have souls. Do we have a layout of the perimeter? Molly unrolled a napkin covered in crayon schematics. She pointed a gloved finger at a red circle. Entry point Alpha is the side gate, she explained. It’s latched, not locked. I’ve timed the patrol patterns. The mother, code name Karen, circles the juice box station every four minutes to replenish hydration levels. And the father? Bill asked. Grill duty, Molly said. He’s distracted by a stubborn brisket. He won’t look up until the internal temperature hits one-ninety. That gives us a ninety-second window during the Happy Birthday song. That’s tight, Molly. Real tight. Usually, children scream during the song. It’s unpredictable. Chaos is a ladder, Bill. When they start singing, the auditory cover will mask the sound of us breaching the gift table. You grab the big boxes. I’ll suppress the clown if he goes rogue. Bill looked pale. You want me to fight the clown? Only if necessary, Molly said, dropping the binoculars to glare at him. Listen to me. We need this score. My rent is due and I promised my nephew a pony. If we pull this off, we’re legends. Legends who stole from a six-year-old named Timmy, Bill said. Timmy is part of the bourgeois elite, Molly snapped. Look at that bounce house. It’s a castle, Bill. A castle! He’s taunting us. Fine, Bill said, pulling a ski mask over his face. But if I have to punch a clown, I’m taking an extra share of the cake. Deal, Molly said. She checked her watch. The candles are being lit. The extraction team is just us and our cardio. Move out. Bill opened the door, crouching low. What if the kids swarm us? Then you use the glitter bombs, Molly commanded. Right. Glitter. The ultimate weapon, Bill whispered. They crept across the lawn, shadows in the afternoon sun, ready to liberate the Lego set from the tyranny of a birthday party.