Molly peered through binoculars coated in fingerprints and glitter, watching the suburban backyard like it was Fort Knox. The bouncy castle swayed in the breeze, a Technicolor stronghold threatening to betray their criminal dignity. A chorus of high-pitched screaming echoed from within—possibly delight, possibly the sound of her remaining conscience being methodically smothered by greed. "You're telling me we spent six months casing the Diamond Heights vault, but you want to abort for a suburban bounce house?" she said, lowering the optics. Bill unrolled a creased flyer on the hood of their van, smoothing the edges with a reverence usually reserved for Rembrandts. The paper featured a cartoon dinosaur holding a balloon in its tiny forearms. He tapped the image with a finger still sticky from their gas station taqueria surveillance. "Look at the inventory, Mol. Thirty-seven gift bags. Three gaming consoles. And a StrumMaster Pro 5000. Limited edition. That's fifteen grand on the dark web." "Those are eight-year-olds, Bill. We swore after the ice cream truck incident." Bill waved off her concerns, producing a manila folder labeled OPERATION: BIRTHDAY BASH in red crayon. Inside were high-resolution photos of enemy territory: the bouncy castle positioned dangerously near the fence, tactical blind spots near the piñata, and a golden retriever wearing a party hat that looked suspiciously like a bear in disguise. Molly squinted at the glossy surveillance photos, her tactical turtleneck suddenly feeling three sizes too tight against her throat. "Is that... is that a petting zoo?" "Goat distribution is our biggest threat," Bill confirmed, chewing a licorice rope he'd pocketed during their earlier drive-by stakeout. "But I've engineered a window. We infiltrate during the magic act. While the birthday boy's dad pulls scarves from his sleeves, we rappel from the oak tree, drop onto the patio, and extract the package." "You can't be serious. Rappelling gear? For a three-foot drop?" Bill narrowed his eyes at the cake table visible in one image, absolutely refusing to compromise on safety standards despite the altitude. He had already memorized the entertainment roster: Bubbles the Unpredictable, a former carnie known for constructing military-grade balloon animals and conducting interrogations via unicycle. Molly exhaled sharply, checking her lock picks against a My Little Pony keychain she'd lifted during yesterday's reconnaissance. The plastic pony stared back with wide, judgmental painted eyes that seemed to accuse her of moral bankruptcy. "Fine. But I'm not wearing the unitard." "Absolutely not. You're masquerading as the ninja performer. I called ahead, cancelled the original. You somersault through the side gate, accidentally punt the presents toward the hedges, and I collect while they think it's choreography." "I haven't done a somersault since 2003." "Then look menacing and steal cupcakes. The StrumMaster contains crypto keys worth fifty grand." "You're risking federal time for juice boxes?" "It's organic pouches now, Molly. Plus the cake is truffle. These parents have deep pockets. And yes." Molly watched a balloon escape. "Two minutes in, two minutes out. If that clown makes eye contact, I'm deploying the smoke bombs." "No pyrotechnics. The invitation specifically cited the marshmallow roasting disaster of 2022." "Fine. But I get first pick of the goody bags." Bill adjusted his fake mustache, which drooped slightly in the suburban humidity. "Deal. Now practice looking disappointed during the cake ceremony. We're method actors now." "I hate this job." "Correction: we're efficiency experts retrieving assets from inefficient minors."