The surveillance van smelled faintly of stale coffee and desperation, a familiar scent for career criminals like Bill and Molly. Outside, the suburban street was deceptively quiet, save for the colorful, rhythmic thumping of a bouncy castle being inflated in the Joneses’ front yard. It was the perfect cover. Nobody suspects a felony amidst the chaotic joy of a six-year-old’s birthday bash, especially when the prize was a mountain of wrapped cardboard boxes containing the latest in plastic engineering and overpriced electronics. "Are you seeing this, Bill? That inflatable dragon is practically a fortress. Thermal imaging shows it’s retaining heat like a sauna," Molly whispered, tapping the blueprints of the suburban house spread across her lap. Bill adjusted his binoculars, ignoring the sweat trickling down his neck. He didn't care about the dragon or the thermal dynamics; he was hunting for the payload. The Jones boy, little Timmy, was notorious for his affluent guest list, and the pile of gifts growing on the patio table was beginning to resemble a small, glittering mountain of opportunity. "I see the payload, Molls. And I see the perimeter guard. A guy in a purple wig. He looks dangerous. He’s juggling torches. I think he’s a professional," Bill said, leaning closer to the windshield. Molly rolled her eyes so hard it nearly caused her to pull a muscle. It was a unicycle, not torches, and the "guard" was a struggling entertainer named Gary who likely cried between gigs. She checked her tactical watch. They had a narrow fifteen-minute window between the arrival of the balloon artist and the cutting of the cake. That was the sweet spot. The children would be sugared up and visually overstimulated, leaving the present table vulnerable and woefully unguarded. "We execute the grab during the 'Happy Birthday' chant. Everyone sings, their eyes are closed, we move. We need the industrial duffel bags. The big ones. We’re not leaving behind the easy-bake ovens. Those things sell for triple the retail on the dark web," Bill commanded, cracking his knuckles with a menacing grin. Molly sighed, picking up a customized grappling hook wrapped in festive streamers for camouflage. They were about to rob a gaggle of first graders. This was a new low, even for them, but the rent was overdue and the black market for unopened video game consoles was surprisingly lucrative. She watched as a stream of mini-vans pulled up, unleashing a horde of screaming, sticky-fingered minions wearing cone hats. "Listen to me closely. No clown noses. No honking. We are silent professionals. Do not engage the children. If a kid asks for a balloon, you ignore them. Understood?" Molly warned, staring him down. Bill nodded solemnly, pulling a balaclava over his face and fishing a slightly melting chocolate bar out of his pocket for a quick energy boost. He looked ridiculous, but his focus was entirely on the stack of presents wrapped in shiny rocket ship paper. The plan was solid, the target was soft, and the payout was going to be legendary. "Let’s go steal Christmas in July, Molly. I’ve got my eye on that robot dinosaur," Bill said, kicking the van door open.