Molly studied the surveillance photos spread across the table, images of a suburban backyard festooned with balloons and streamers. Bill munched potato chips beside her, scattering crumbs across their operational intelligence. "Saturday at three," Molly said, tapping a balloon-shaped invitation. The target was innocent enough: little Timmy Henderson's eighth birthday party. But intelligence suggested the gifts would include the latest gaming console, still unavailable in stores, worth a fortune on the secondary market. Bill wiped grease on his jeans and leaned closer to examine the layout. The present table sat dangerously close to the bouncy castle, their primary infiltration point. Molly had already acquired two clown costumes from a bankrupt circus. "Parents will be drunk on mimosas by four," Bill noted. Their window was narrow. Enter during pin-the-tail-on-the-donkey, exit before cake. Molly had timed it perfectly during reconnaissance at the neighbor's party last week. She rolled up the photos and checked her watch. Twenty-three hours until showtime. Bill finished the chips and crumpled the bag loudly. Molly glared at him. Stealth was clearly not his strong suit, but he could fit through small windows, and that counted for something in this business.