Molly adjusted the rearview mirror, checking the reflection of her nylon mask before focusing on the suburban house across the street. Balloons swayed like drunken sailors in the wind, and a banner reading "TIMMY TURNS 7!" drooped sadly from the porch railing. It was a target-rich environment. "Target acquired," Molly whispered, tapping the dashboard with a gloved finger. "I count three rows of presents. Maybe four. It’s a veritable goldmine of unregistered electronics." "That’s a lot of wrapping paper," Bill said, crinkling a cheese puff bag in the passenger seat. He wiped a streak of orange dust on his black tactical vest. "Are we sure about the payload? Could be socks. Kids get a lot of socks." "Socks?" Molly scoffed, turning to glare at him. "Look at the dimensions of those boxes, Bill. One of them is the exact shape of a gaming console. Another is clearly a drum set. We’re talking high-value resale on the black market. Or at least a very profitable eBay listing." "Kids are noisy, though. High-pitched screams. If we go in there, it’s going to be chaos." "That’s why we stick to the plan. Phase one: The Distraction." "Right. The Distraction. I still think I should dress as the Grim Reaper. It scares them, they cry, and we move in during the confusion." "No, Bill. We talked about this. Too ominous. We need something they love. Something that draws them away from the pile." "A pony?" "We don't have the budget for a pony. We have the budget for a feral raccoon and a leash." Bill stared at her, his mouth slightly open. "You’re serious. We’re using a raccoon?" "I’ve been feeding Mr. Whiskers peanuts for a week. He’s angry, he’s hungry, and he’s wearing a tiny tuxedo. We release him into the cake area, and the party clears out in seconds. Panic, screaming, total evacuation." "What if he bites the birthday boy?" "Then the kid gets a cool story and a rabies shot, and we get the loot. Win-win. Now, get the burlap sacks ready." Bill reached into the backseat and pulled out two sacks emblazoned with the logo of a local petting zoo. "I still think we should grab the food, too. I saw a platter of sliders that looked prime." "We are professionals, Bill. We focus on the merchandise. We go in, grab the gifts, and slide out the back gate before the clown even starts twisting balloon animals." "Speaking of the clown," Bill said, pointing a cheesy finger through the windshield. "He’s looking at the car." Molly slumped down in her seat. "Don’t make eye contact. Clowns can sense fear." "He’s waving at us." "Ignore him. I’m reviewing the escape route. We cut through the neighbor’s hydrangeas, hop the fence, and rendezvous at the van." "The neighbor has a dog. A big one. I saw it barking at a mailman yesterday." "That’s why I brought the squeaky toy. You squeak, he follows, we run." "You want me to lead a Rottweiler away from the crime scene while I’m carrying a sack of Lego sets?" "It’s called multitasking, Bill. Keep up. Ready?" "I really hate this job." "Perfect. Let’s go make some orphans cry."