The stakes were high, the target was fortified, and the primary deterrent was a six-foot-tall man named Barnaby who dressed like a neon polka-dot nightmare. Molly adjusted her binoculars, focusing on the suburban fortress. Streamers fluttered from the gutters like warning flags. Those presents aren't going to liberate themselves, Bill, Molly said, her voice dropping into a low, professional rasp. My intel suggests the haul includes three limited-edition Lego sets and a drone that can hover for twenty minutes. We’re talking black-market gold. Bill was currently struggling to pull a spandex sleeve over his forearm. He looked less like a master thief and more like a competitive cyclist who had lost a fight with a box of crayons. Do I really have to be the balloon artist? he asked, tugging at a lime-green vest that threatened to cut off his circulation. I can’t even make a dog. Every time I try, it looks like a mutated link of sausage. The balloon is the distraction, Bill. It’s psychological warfare, Molly countered. While you’re failing to inflate a giraffe, I’m sliding through the mudroom to extract the goods. It’s a classic pincer movement. I have a latex allergy, Bill remarked, staring mournfully at a bag of uninflated spheres. And child-sized humans are unpredictable. What if they smell the fear on me? They’re like sharks, Molly. Tiny, sticky-fingered sharks with no sense of personal space. Molly sighed and checked her tactical stopwatch. You’re overthinking the biomechanics of an eight-year-old. Just keep them occupied near the bounce house. If things get hairy, release the glitter bombs. It creates a tactical fog of sparkle that buys us at least forty seconds of confusion. And the getaway driver? Bill asked, gesturing toward a rusted sedan parked three blocks away. Mrs. Higgins is on standby, Molly said. She thinks we’re delivering these gifts to an underprivileged orphanage. If she sees a patrol car, she’s instructed to trigger the car alarm and start screaming about her hip. It’s foolproof. Bill looked at the house again. A clown had just emerged from a minivan, carrying a bucket of what appeared to be industrial-grade confetti. Is that our competition? he whispered, reaching for a miniature crowbar hidden in his oversized pocket. That’s a professional, Molly muttered, her eyes narrowing. But he’s sloppy. Look at the shoes. Floppy plastic? He’s an amateur. We go in at 14:00 hours, right when the cake is served. Why the cake? Bill asked. Glucose-induced coma, Bill. It’s the only window where the parental units drop their guard. They’ll be too busy filming the sugar rush to notice two highly trained operatives clearing the sunroom of all wrapped contraband. I just hope the drone is the one with the 4K camera, Bill said, finally snapping his vest closed. If I’m going to catch a rash from these balloons, I want high-definition footage of my retirement. Molly patted his shoulder. Stop whining and start blowing. We have a birthday to ruin.