Molly adjusted the strap of the ridiculously large candy cane she had slung over her shoulder. It was itchy and smelled of cheap peppermint and questionable life choices. Across the cluttered van, Bill was attempting to secure a bright blue, cone-shaped party hat onto his head, which was a feat akin to wrestling a greased badger. “Will you stop fidgeting with that?” Molly hissed, peering through a pair of binoculars at the suburban house down the street. “You look less like a party guest and more like a confused smurf. The objective is to blend in, not to be the main attraction at a clown convention.” Bill finally got the hat to sit at a jaunty, if slightly precarious, angle. “I’ll have you know this hat is a masterstroke of subterfuge. Parents see a man in a silly hat, they think ‘harmless party entertainer’ or ‘uncle who’s had one too many’. They don’t think ‘international present-thief’.” He puffed out his chest, causing the hat to wobble violently. “It’s psychological warfare.” “It’s a felt cone, Bill. Now, pay attention. The target is a six-year-old’s birthday party. The presents are in the living room, stacked by the fireplace. Our window is during ‘Pin the Tail on the Donkey’. The ensuing chaos provides a ninety-second window for extraction.” Molly checked her watch. “The game starts in five minutes. Are your gear bags ready?” Bill patted two large, empty gift bags with cartoon dinosaurs on them. “Ready to be filled with the spoils of war. Or, you know, a really expensive Lego set. I’ve got my eye on the one with the dragon. It has three thousand pieces, Molly. Three thousand! That’s a retirement fund in plastic bricks.” Molly ignored him, her focus fixed on the house. A small horde of screaming children had just been herded into the back garden. “That’s our cue. Remember the plan. We walk in, nod, smile, and head straight for the presents. No eye contact with the parents. And for heaven’s sake, try not to talk.” “Talking is how I build rapport,” Bill insisted, opening the van door. A wave of distorted, jolly music hit them. “What if they ask who we’re here for?” Molly grabbed her own bag, a floral number that screamed ‘well-meaning but slightly absent aunt’. “You’re my Uncle Barry. You have a touch of vertigo and a deep-seated fear of piñatas. If anyone speaks to you, just clutch your chest and point vaguely at the sky. Now, let’s go liberate some future landfill.”