The map spread across the greasy diner table was not a blueprint of a bank vault, but a crudely drawn diagram of a suburban backyard featuring a bouncy castle and a sandbox. Bill adjusted his spectacles, which were currently held together by a piece of duct tape and sheer willpower. He poked a stubby finger at a cluster of crayon scribbles. The primary objective is located in the solarium adjacent to the clown station, Bill whispered, his voice trembling with a gravity usually reserved for international espionage. We’re looking at forty, maybe fifty high-value targets. Lego sets, remote-controlled drones, and if the intel is correct, a vintage-style rocking horse with genuine leather upholstery. Molly took a long, loud slurp of her lukewarm milkshake. Bill, it’s a six-year-old’s birthday party. We aren't exactly infiltrating the Louvre. My biggest concern isn't the security system; it’s the sticky fingers. Last time I worked a toddler gig, I came home with apple juice in my holster. You underestimate the perimeter defense, Molly, Bill countered, sliding a grainy photograph across the laminate. Look at him. That’s Barnaby the Balloon Artist. He’s got eyes like a hawk and a pump-action balloon inflator that could take an ear off at twenty paces. If he spots us without a lanyard, the whole operation goes south. Molly leaned in, squinting at the photo. He’s wearing a polka-dot waistcoat, Bill. I think I can take him. What’s the extraction plan? We can’t exactly walk out the front gate carrying a six-foot-tall stuffed giraffe without raising a few eyebrows. That’s where the tactical stroller comes in, Bill said, his eyes gleaming with pride. I’ve gutted a double-seater jogger. It’s been reinforced with a false bottom and a silent-glide suspension. We roll in as weary parents, we load the cargo into the undercarriage, and we roll out under the cover of the ‘Pin the Tail on the Donkey’ festivities. And the getaway vehicle? Molly asked. Please tell me it isn't the minivan with the sliding door that sticks. It’s the minivan, Bill admitted, deflating slightly. But I’ve changed the plates to a ‘Baby on Board’ sign. It’s the perfect cloaking device. No cop in the tri-state area stops a vehicle that smells that strongly of discarded goldfish crackers. Molly sighed and checked her watch. Fine. I’ll handle the distraction. When the cake comes out, I’ll trigger the glitter bomb inside the piñata. In the ensuing chaos of sugar-crazed children and weeping parents, you move the heavy lifting. But I’m warning you, if I get invited to play duck-duck-goose, you’re on your own. Bill nodded solemnly, folding the map into a tiny square. Professionalism is key, Molly. We hit them hard, we hit them fast, and we leave before the magician starts his second act. Nobody suspects the parents in the back with the sensible shoes. They stood up in unison, leaving a five-dollar bill on the table as if they were closing a deal on a diamond mountain. At the door, Molly paused. Wait. One more thing. Did you remember the tactical party hats? Bill patted his vest pocket. Elastic chin straps and everything. We’re ready.