Molly adjusted her night vision goggles, which made the bouncy castle look like a radioactive marshmallow. "You're absolutely positive about the security layout?" Bill unfolded the crumpled invitation he'd fished from the Hendersons' recycling bin. "Three parents inside. One distracted by the cake, one filming everything on an iPad, one literally drowning in the ball pit right now. The real threat is the clown." "The clown is armed?" Molly asked, checking her grappling hook. "With balloons." Bill pointed at the picture window where Binky was twisting a giraffe three feet long. "He’s got a pump. That’s considered air-powered weaponry in seven states." Molly checked her watch. "Pinata protocol?" "Traditional," Bill said, pulling a ski mask over his face. "Blindfolded kid with a stick. Chaos factor: maximum. We go in during the singing." "Wait." Molly grabbed his arm before he could open the van door. "Do we... do we take the presents directly from the children’s hands, or from the designated pile?" Bill paused. His mask had eye holes that were slightly too far apart, giving him a surprised owl appearance. "The pile. Obviously the pile. We’re thieves, not monsters. We have standards." "Just checking," Molly said. "Last month you wanted to mug a Girl Scout for her cookie money." "She had thin mints!" Bill protested. "Do you know the street value?" Molly held up the blueprint she'd drawn on stolen Hello Kitty stationery. "Entry through the kitchen, avoid the Juice Box Minefield, grab the gift table, exit through the side gate before they play musical chairs." Bill squinted at the drawing. "Is that a unicorn guarding the east wing?" "Security dog," Molly said. "Golden Retriever. Answers to 'Cupcake.' Possesses lethal amounts of drool and unconditional love." "I've got the distraction covered." Bill patted his backpack. "Fifteen pounds of biodegradable confetti and a kazoo orchestra." Molly stared at him through her goggles. "That's not a distraction, Bill. That's a war crime against childhood." "Trust the process," Bill insisted. Their black tactical gear absorbed the moonlight as they pressed against the vinyl siding of the Henderson residence. They crept across the lawn, flattening themselves against the hydrangea hedges as "Happy Birthday" reached its screeching crescendo inside. Bill gave a nervous thumbs-up. Molly counted down on her gloved fingers. Three. Two. One. The sound of twenty children screaming about cake erupted from the house. "Move!" Molly hissed. They vaulted the fence—Bill caught his utility belt on a decorative flamingo—and landed hard in the backyard. Bill winced as a plush unicorn bounced off his head. The gift table sat gloriously unguarded beneath a glitter banner reading "Tyler is 7!" surrounded by torn wrapping paper and abandoned juice boxes. "Beautiful," Bill whispered, producing a garbage bag with a snap. "Look at that stack. That's pure Nintendo Switch and unopened Legos. Untraceable. High resale value." "Wait." Molly froze mid-step. "Bill. Is that... is that a bouncy castle?" "Focus, Moll," Bill said, stuffing a boxed chemistry set into his bag. "We’re on a tight timeline here." "But it has a dragon theme." "You grab the presents," Molly said, eyes gleaming behind her goggles. "I'm disabling the bouncy castle." "You can't seriously—" "Consider it a signing bonus," Molly said, already sprinting toward the inflatable dragon. Her black tactical gear looked incongruous against the pastel decorations. "Happy birthday, Tyler!" Bill stuffed more toys into the bag, muttering, "I work with a child." Then he paused, looking at the abandoned pinata stick lying in the grass. "Actually..." He grabbed it. Inside the bag, Lego bricks rattled like contraband diamonds.