“Right, the target is a seven-year-old’s birthday party. Intel suggests high-value presents: action figures, a potential Lego Death Star,” Molly whispered, peering through binoculars. Bill adjusted his clown nose. “I still don’t get why I have to be the distraction. Why can’t I be the ghost of Christmas future? I have a great scary voice.” “Because, Bill, a ghost at a kid’s party would cause screaming, parental panic, and a call to the authorities. A clumsy clown who can’t tie his own balloon animals? That’s endearing. That’s cover. Now, what’s your exit strategy?” “I create a diversion by ‘accidentally’ popping the bouncy castle. You grab the presents while they’re all staring at the deflating tragedy.” “Perfect. And the presents?” “In the giant gift pile by the cake. Obvious. Too obvious.” “Exactly,” Molly said, patting him on his frizzy, rainbow wig. “They’ll never see it coming. Now go, Bozo. For glory, for greed, for that Lego Death Star.”