Molly tapped a greasy napkin, her expression grim. Their reconnaissance was complete. The target: a suburban backyard, the impenetrable fortress of a seven-year-old’s birthday party. The primary obstacle, according to her scribbled intel, was a man in a “Kiss the Cook” apron tending a grill. He was the heavy. Bill, meanwhile, was less concerned with the culinary sentry and more with the payload. He envisioned the extraction, a duffel bag filled with brightly wrapped boxes emitting cacophonous beeps and jingles. Stealth was impossible. “The weak point is the bouncy castle,” Molly hissed, pointing a grimy finger. Bill looked up from polishing a lockpick. “What about the squeakers?” “A calculated risk.” “I hate calculated risks.” Molly ignored his muttering, her finger tracing a path past a sleeping golden retriever—the silent alarm—and towards the prize table. She’d already disabled the piñata, a real grenade of potential noise, during her last dry run. For them, this was the big score. For everyone else, it was just Saturday.