Molly adjusted her fake mustache in the car's rearview mirror while Bill wrestled with an enormous cardboard box decorated with dancing unicorns. The bounce house across the street wobbled with shrieking seven-year-olds, their sugar-fueled chaos providing perfect cover. "Ready?" Bill whispered. She nodded, grabbing her clipboard. They'd learned years ago that looking official opened more doors than any lockpick. Bill hoisted the empty box onto his shoulder, and they marched toward the backyard gate with the confidence of people who absolutely belonged at little Madison's birthday extravaganza. A harried mother barely glanced at them as they passed through. Molly's eyes locked onto the present table, a magnificent tower of wrapped boxes and gift bags that probably contained more iPads than a Best Buy clearance sale. Bill positioned himself strategically, his large box obscuring the view from most angles. Parents clustered near the snack table, completely absorbed in their own conversations about mortgage rates and private schools. "Now," Molly said. They worked with practiced efficiency, transferring gifts into Bill's box with the smooth coordination of a pit crew. Within ninety seconds, they were walking back through the gate, leaving behind only confused wrapping paper scraps and one suspicious clown.