The surveillance van sat like a metal hermit crab in the shade of the ancient oak tree, engine idling with a nervous, guttural shudder. Molly sat in the driver’s seat, the high-tech tablet on her lap lighting up her face like a surgeon’s operating table. She wasn’t looking at city maps or blueprints; she was watching a live HD feed of a toddler aggressively pedaling a tricycle. Her eyes were sharp, dissecting the perimeter for any gaps in the security net provided by over-enthusiastic suburban parents. "Are you sure this is the prime location?" Bill asked, slumped low in the passenger seat. He was clutching a jagged piece of PVC pipe like a sacred religious relic. "I’m seeing a lot of variables. The swing set is a death trap. High trajectory. Risk of serious impact." "It’s plastic, Bill," Molly snapped, keeping her voice a harsh, covert whisper. "That kid is three. He thinks spinning around really fast counts as parkour. We have a strictly limited thirty-second window before the parents start passing out wine coolers and the security guard gets lazy." "I brought the grappling hook," Bill said, grinning with yellowed teeth. "And the glitter bomb. The instructions said it would cause temporary blindness." "We’re not causing blindness, we’re causing confusion. We’re professionals. You just want to blow things up." She swiped a finger across the screen, muting the audio feed. "Okay, listen. The target is the picnic blanket on the lawn. The loot is in three specific boxes: the Lego set, the Nerf gun, and the crates of fruit snacks. That is all." "What about the unicorn piñata?" Bill asked, gesturing wildly with the PVC pipe. "That seems like the tactical center. If we take that, we take the psychological victory." "The unicorn is too buoyant, Bill. It floats on air. We can't catch it. We need something dense. Something with heavy cubic weight." Molly checked her watch, then looked at her partner. "You ready?" "I'm ready to vanish," Bill said, zipping his jacket up to his chin. "But what if the baby cries? I panic around babies. They smell like milk and fear. It’s corrosive." "They smell like desperation. That’s what we feed on. It’s our fuel." She gripped the steering wheel, knuckles white. "Go. Hit the lawn, grab the snacks, and get back here before the Jehovah’s Witnesses walk past the van." "You really don't like them, do you? What did they ever do to you?" "They have a sales quota, Bill. It’s corporate espionage. Now, execute." Bill shoved the door open and sprinted into the blinding sun, PVC pipe leading the charge. "Party time!"