The map was not a blueprint of a high-security vault, but rather a crude rendering of a backyard in suburban Ohio, complete with a crayon-drawn frowny face over the bounce house. Bill adjusted his clip-on tie, which was patterned with tiny, vomit-colored sailboats. We have to be surgical, Molly. Twenty-five sugar-crazed second graders are essentially a biological weapon. If one of them sees us, the screaming starts, and once the screaming starts, the suburban moms descend like a flock of caffeinated vultures. Molly checked the action on her high-powered bubble gun, ensuring the reservoir was full of premium soap solution. She looked resplendent in a rented clown suit that smelled faintly of despair and old ham. The objective is the gift table, situated between the gluten-free cupcake stand and the artisanal juice bar. My intel says there’s a Lego Death Star in the mix. That’s high-yield currency on the black market, Bill. Is it the one with the functional laser? Because if it’s the budget version, I’m not risking a kidnapping charge for plastic trash. It’s the collector's edition. And rumor has it the birthday boy’s aunt is a soft touch who gifted him a gold-plated Nintendo Switch. We get in, we swap the sacks with the bags of gravel I’ve got in the van, and we vanish before they cut the cake. Bill looked at the schedule, his hands trembling slightly as he adjusted his thick-rimmed disguise spectacles. What about the entertainment? The invitation says there’s a professional magician named The Great Gazoo. If he’s a union guy, he’ll spot our fake credentials in a heartbeat. I’ve handled magicians before. They’re transition-based performers. One puff of a smoke bomb and they’ll think it’s part of the act. You just worry about the perimeter. Did you pack the tactical glitter? In the side pocket of my cargo shorts, next to the emergency juice boxes. But Molly, what if the birthday boy is a crier? Then we use the backup plan. We tell him we’re the Federal Bureau of Party Investigation and we’re confiscating the gifts for a safety inspection. Kids believe anything if you wear a clipboard and look disappointed in them. Bill took a deep breath, smoothing out his polyester vest. He looked like a man who had lost a fight with a circus. This is a new low for us, isn’t it? Last year we were casing the Louvre. Now we’re plotting against a seven-year-old named Tyler. The Louvre didn't have a bouncy castle, Bill. Adapt or die. Now, put on your big red nose. We have a heist to execute. They stepped out of the van, the scent of juice boxes and impending chaos filling the air. The mission had begun.