The van smelled like stale coffee and regret. Molly pressed her binoculars against the window, watching the balloon-festooned house across the street with the intensity of a surgeon studying an X-ray. "There's got to be thirty kids in there," she muttered. Bill looked up from his clipboard, where he'd drawn an elaborate diagram that looked more like a kindergartner's artwork than a heist plan. "Thirty-two, actually. I counted the juice boxes going in." "You counted juice boxes?" "Intelligence gathering, Molly. This is what professionals do." She turned to stare at him. "Bill, we're stealing birthday presents from seven-year-olds. I don't think we qualify as professionals anymore." "Hey, those presents add up. You know how much a LEGO Death Star costs these days? We're talking serious merchandise in that living room." Molly sighed and returned to her surveillance. A clown emerged from a minivan, carrying an armful of balloon animals. "Great. They've got entertainment. This complicates things." "Actually, that's perfect," Bill said, grinning like a man who'd just solved world hunger. "The clown is our way in." "I'm not wearing a clown costume again. Remember Portland?" "Nobody's asking you to wear anything. Well, something. Clothes, obviously. But here's my thinking. When the clown does his act, every kid in that place is going to be hypnotized. Parents too. That's when we slip through the back." "And the presents are where exactly?" Bill consulted his clipboard. "Based on standard suburban party architecture, they'll have a designated gift table. Probably near the cake station. We grab, we bag, we vanish." "What about the dog?" Bill's face fell. "What dog?" Molly pointed toward the window. A golden retriever the size of a small horse was now visible through the front bay window, wearing a party hat and looking extremely alert. "That dog. The one that looks like it bench presses mail carriers." "Okay, minor setback. Do we have any of those treats left? The ones from the museum job?" "You mean the sedatives shaped like bacon?" "I prefer to call them relaxation snacks." Molly rubbed her temples. "This is insane. We used to hit jewelry stores. Art galleries. Remember the Vanderbilt diamonds?" "Remember the Vanderbilt security system? I still have nightmares about those lasers. This is cleaner. Simpler. No lasers, no guards, just a bunch of sugar-crazed children and one athletic golden retriever." "And a clown." "And a clown," Bill agreed. "But clowns are predictable. They do the same twelve tricks every time. Balloon dog, balloon sword, flower that squirts water. We'll have exactly fourteen minutes during his finale." Molly watched as another parent arrived, lugging a wrapped box nearly as tall as the child beside them. Her eyes widened. "Is that a bicycle?" "Told you," Bill said smugly. "Serious merchandise." She grabbed her black ski mask from the dashboard. "Fine. But I get first pick of the haul."