The sedan smelled of stale coffee and desperation. From their vantage point across the street, the target house—a cheerful bungalow vomiting a rainbow of streamers onto the lawn—was less a fortress and more a minefield of pure, unadulterated joy. A battalion of inflatable unicorns guarded the driveway. Through the bay window, the high-pitched shrieking of a dozen under-sugared seven-year-olds was visible as a frantic, blurry motion. Molly ignored the cacophony, her focus locked on the glowing tablet in her lap. A detailed schematic of the house’s ground floor was overlaid with a tactical plan. Beside her, Bill was watching the party through binoculars, his expression a mixture of awe and horror. “Are you sure about this, Molls?” he asked, lowering the binoculars. “The tactical approach seems… aggressive.” “It’s a two-pronged assault, Bill,” Molly said, not looking up. “One creates a diversion. The other secures the asset. The assets, plural. The presents.” Bill squinted at the house. A mountain of gaudily wrapped cardboard was teetering precariously next to a fireplace. He could just make out the corner of a box promising a ‘Super Soaker 9000’. “A clown?” he said, his face, usually a rugged landscape of criminal indifference, falling as he spotted the costume crumpled in the back seat. “You want me to go in there as a clown? The squeaky shoes are a security risk. They announce your presence. And the nose. It honks. What if I need to be stealthy?” “The honk is a secondary distraction,” Molly snapped, finally tearing her eyes away from the screen. “And you won’t need to be stealthy. You’re the diversion. You’re supposed to be seen.” “But the face paint gets itchy,” Bill whined, gesturing at his own rugged face. “And what if one of them has a phobia? We could be looking at a psychological trauma lawsuit.” “Bill, for the last time, we are not litigating the emotional distress of a seven-year-old. You are a clown. Your job is to be loud and regrettable. Now, focus on the party-poppers.” She pointed a manicured finger at a bag on the floor. Just then, a new sound drifted from the house, a synthesized horror that made the hair on her arms stand on end. It was the opening notes of "The Wheels on the Bus." A muscle twitched in her jaw. She snapped the laptop shut. The plan was set. It was time to go to work.