The Econoline van sat idling at the curb, masquerading as a municipal landscaping vehicle despite the distinct lack of rakes or ambition. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of lukewarm coffee and nervous sweat. Molly adjusted the focus on her tactical binoculars, peering through the bug-splattered windshield at the suburban fortress across the street. To the average observer, it was a split-level ranch hosting a birthday party for a small boy named Timmy. To Molly, it was the vault, and today was payday. Balloons tied to the mailbox fluttered like warning flags in the gentle breeze, while the rhythmic thumping of a bouncy castle echoed like a war drum. Target package is confirmed, Molly said, her voice grave and raspy. I see a mountain of gift wrap on the patio table. It’s unprotected. Bill sat in the passenger seat, aggressively crumbling a granola bar into his lap while staring at a hand-drawn schematic of the backyard. He looked pale, beads of perspiration gathering on his forehead as he contemplated the dangers of the operation. I don’t like the look of the perimeter, he whispered, shaking his head. That golden retriever has made three laps in the last ten minutes. He’s on patrol, Mol. If he barks, the whole operation goes belly up. Molly scoffed, lowering the binoculars to glare at her partner. She reached into the glovebox and produced a sealed bag of beef jerky. The canine unit is easily bribed. Focus on the real threat. The mothers. There’s too many of them, Bill whined. They’re drinking mimosas in a phalanx formation. They’ve got a three-hundred-and-sixty-degree view of the loot. We can’t breach. We don’t need to breach the phalanx, Molly explained with the patience of a saint addressing a toddler. We need a diversion. At fourteen hundred hours, the pizza arrives. That is the window. When the pepperoni hits the table, the maternal instinct to feed will override the instinct to guard the Lego sets. But what about the clown? Bill asked. He’s got giant shoes. He’s mobile. The clown is on our payroll, Molly lied, checking her watch. Or he will be, once I slip a twenty into his oversized pocket. He’s going to create a balloon animal shortage that causes a riot near the swing set. Bill sighed, wiping his hands on his tactical black turtleneck, which was a terrible choice for a summer afternoon. We’re bad people, Molly. Taking presents from a kid? This is a new low. We are liberating those toys from a life of neglect, she countered sharply, loading a grappling hook that was clearly made of plastic hangers and duct tape. Timmy has a tablet. He won’t even look at that exquisitely wrapped dump truck. We are performing a service. Now, put on your mask. It’s a Nixon mask, Bill complained. It scares the children. Fear is a tool, Bill. Let’s go.