Molly adjusted the focus on her high-powered binoculars, squinting through the grimy windshield of their unmarked paneled van. The target location was a pristine suburban backyard, currently swarming with seven-year-olds hopped up on high-fructose corn syrup. A bright purple bouncy castle vibrated violently in the center of the lawn, threatening to launch a small child into the stratosphere at any moment. The summer sun beat down on the vehicle, baking the interior air until it smelled faintly of stale coffee and desperation. "Target confirmed," Molly whispered, lowering the lenses and wiping a bead of sweat from her forehead. "That pink wrap on the far table. I’m ninety percent sure it’s the LEGO Death Star. Retail value is through the roof on the black market." Bill wiped a smudge of pink donut glaze from his black tactical vest, staining the Kevlar permanently. "You think the kid actually deserves that? He’s probably one of those brats who screams in restaurants. We’re doing the world a favor, Molly. It's a redistribution of plastic wealth." "Focus, Bill. We’re not vigilantes, we’re professionals." She tapped the laminated blueprint of the garden shed spread across her lap. "The security detail is tighter than expected. I count three clowns and a magician. The magician is the wildcard; he could have doves or hidden swords in those sleeves." "Wait, what about the piñata? That burro looks stuffed." Bill gestured toward a paper donkey hanging from a tree branch. "Is that loot?" "Negative. That’s a trap. It’s filled with taffy. We don't do taffy, Bill. Stick to the high-value electronics." "I’ve got the distraction ready." Bill patted the dashboard with a gloved hand, his eyes narrowing. "I parked the ice cream truck around the corner. When I hit the chimes, absolute chaos ensues. Every kid within a three-mile radius is going to lose their mind." "Good. Once they swarm the truck, you swoop in on the grabber." Molly pointed to a long, rusted mechanical claw resting between them, usually reserved for arcade machines but modified for heavy lifting. "You need to be fast. The payload is fragile. If you drop a Barbie Dreamhouse, we walk away with nothing but shame." "What about the parents? The moms look like they’ve had three espressos and zero patience." Bill eyed the group of women by the punch bowl with genuine fear. "Those women are ruthless. They’ll tear us apart." "The moms are the real threat. They’re like pit bulls with minivans." Molly checked her watch, her heart racing with the adrenaline of the score. "We move in T-minus five. Put on your happy face." Bill pulled a neon rainbow wig over his head, the itchy synthetic fibers scratching his neck uncomfortably. He adjusted the red rubber nose, completing the transformation into a festive, criminal idiot. "Do I look approachable? I need to look like a guy who knows where the good balloons are." "You look like a clown who’s seen some things, Bill. It’s perfect. Now, let’s go liberate those presents before the cake gets cut."