Molly spread the crayon-drawn map across the sticky surface of the McDonald's table and jabbed her finger at a wobbly rectangle labeled PREZENTS in purple marker. "This is where they're keeping the goods," she said with the gravity of someone planning a diamond heist. "Little Timmy's birthday party. Saturday. Two p.m. We're looking at approximately fifteen to twenty wrapped packages, maybe more if the grandparents show up." Bill leaned forward, squinting at the map. He pushed his reading glasses up his nose and frowned deeply. "Where did you even get this intelligence?" "I bribed a kid at the playground with fruit snacks. He's in Timmy's class. Solid source." Bill nodded slowly, impressed despite himself. A nearby toddler threw a chicken nugget at his head, and he ignored it with the practiced patience of a professional. "What's our entry point?" "The bouncy castle," Molly said, tapping another misshapen blob on the map. "It's positioned right next to the back fence. We go over, use the castle as cover, and slip into the garage where they're staging the gifts before the big reveal." "A bouncy castle," Bill repeated flatly. "You want me to infiltrate via inflatable structure. I'm fifty-three years old, Molly." "You wanted back in the game. This is the game now." Bill sighed and rubbed his temples. Twenty years ago, they'd lifted a Picasso from a private collector in Monaco. Now they were targeting a suburban garage in New Jersey for what would probably amount to Legos and gift cards to Target. "What about security?" "One golden retriever named Biscuit. Extremely friendly. I've already established rapport during my reconnaissance walks. He'll be no problem." "And the parents?" Molly grinned, sliding a crumpled flyer across the table. It advertised a magician named The Amazing Roberto. "Entertainment starts at two-thirty. Every adult eye will be on Roberto pulling rabbits out of hats while we're loading the van." Bill studied the flyer, then looked back at his partner of three decades. She was wearing a disguise consisting of a sun hat and novelty sunglasses shaped like stars. They were sitting in a fast food restaurant planning the lowest-stakes robbery of their careers. "Why are we doing this again?" "Because Timmy's father is Ronald Beckwith." Bill's expression transformed instantly. "The Ronald Beckwith? The one who ratted out Jimmy the Fingers?" "The very same. This isn't about the presents, Bill. This is about justice. This is about sending a message." Bill straightened in his plastic seat, newfound purpose burning in his eyes. The chicken nugget fell from his shoulder unnoticed. "What's our exit strategy?" "Ice cream truck. I've rented one for the afternoon. We drive away playing Pop Goes the Weasel, and no one suspects a thing." Molly extended her hand across the table. Bill grasped it firmly, sealing their partnership anew over cold french fries and a children's placemat. "Saturday it is."