Molly’s nails were a silent percussion against the dashboard, a frantic beat that did nothing to soothe Bill’s nerves. They were parked two blocks from the target, a house that was currently radiating the kind of pure, unadulterated joy that made Bill’s teeth ache. “Right,” Molly said, clapping her hands together. “Final checks. I’ve got the smoke bombs, the grappling hook, and the tranquilizer darts in case we meet any particularly aggressive golden retrievers.” Bill stared at her. “Molly, we’re breaking into a seven-year-old’s birthday party, not Fort Knox. We don’t need tranquilizer darts.” “It’s called being prepared,” she sniffed, adjusting the balaclava that was making her look like a disgruntled woolly sheep. “You can never underestimate the security at a toddler rave. One of them could be a prodigy. A tiny, juice-fueled security genius.” “They’re going to be distracted by a man in a giant purple dinosaur costume,” Bill said, gesturing to the crumpled suit in the back seat. “That’s the plan. I go in, I dance, I cause a diversion. You slip in the back and grab the loot.” “I still don’t see why I can’t be the dinosaur,” Molly grumbled. “I’m a much better dancer.” “Because last time you ‘danced,’ you accidentally kicked a hole in the wall of that museum, and I had to pay for it out of my own pocket,” Bill retorted. “Just stick to the plan. The second they start singing ‘Happy Birthday,’ that’s your cue. The parents will be fumbling with their phones, the kids will be screaming for cake. It’s a window of opportunity. A perfect, buttercream-frosted window.” “Okay, okay,” Molly conceded, peering through a pair of miniature binoculars. “I see the presents. They’re piled high by the fireplace. It’s a mountain, Bill. A glittery, gift-wrapped mountain of profit. What’s our exit strategy?” “We walk out,” Bill said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “We’re not Bond villains. We grab the bags and we stroll to the car. No running, no shouting, no grappling hooks.” “Fine,” Molly sighed, deflating slightly. “But if one of those little brats snots on me, I’m using a smoke bomb.” “Deal,” Bill said, pulling the giant, purple dinosaur head over his own. The world was suddenly muffled and smelled faintly of plastic and despair. Through the narrow eyeholes, he could see Molly giving him a thumbs-up. “Operation: Birthday Bash is a go,” she whispered. “Now get in there and shake your tail-feather, you big purple idiot.”