Molly adjusted the focus on her high-powered binoculars, the rubber eyecups squeaking against her cheekbones as she scanned the perimeter. From their vantage point inside a rusted beige sedan that smelled faintly of stale French fries and desperation, the target was a chaotic swirl of primary colors and high-pitched screaming. The suburban backyard was a fortress of juvenile chaos, fortified by an inflatable bouncy castle and a platoon of six-year-olds hopped up on refined sugar. The afternoon sun beat down on the windshield, making the interior of the car feel like a convection oven, but Molly refused to crack a window. Professionals didn't let comfort compromise the surveillance, even if the target was a demographic that still wet the bed. "Target is stationary on the picnic table," Molly whispered, her voice tight with professional tension. "I count twenty packages. High probability of electronics. Maybe a pony." Bill slumped in the passenger seat, picking at a loose thread on his black turtleneck. He looked less like a master thief and more like a cat burglar who had lost his way and ended up in a suburban cul-de-sac, which, technically, he had. He wiped a bead of sweat from his forehead, wishing he was anywhere else, preferably a place without balloon animals or the distant, terrifying sound of a clown horn. "It’s a birthday party, Molly, not a bank," Bill said, gesturing vaguely at the house. "The only pony is going to be plastic. And look at the security. That mom is cutting cake. She’s got a knife, but she’s using it for frosting. We can just walk in." "Amateur," Molly hissed, lowering the binoculars to glare at him. "You see a mom. I see a territorial guardian protecting the asset. We need a cover story. We need precision." Molly pulled a crumpled napkin from the glove compartment, on which a crude map was drawn in purple crayon. She smoothed it out on the steering wheel, her eyes darting between the diagram and the backyard. The layout was treacherous. A slip-n-slide created a hazardous channel of water near the fence, and the clown performing near the patio furniture was a wildcard variable. His shoes were oversized, his smile painted on, and he terrified her more than any security guard she had ever encountered. "We breach the perimeter here," Molly said. "I’ll create a diversion by untying the piñata rope. When it falls, the children will swarm. Total chaos. You grab the big boxes." "I’m not shoving past a mob of second graders," Bill said, rubbing his temples as if warding off a migraine. "They bite. I’ve seen them bite. Have you considered we just go get tacos instead?" "Tacos don't pay the rent. Now, put on your disguise." Bill stared at the oversized, neon-green sombrero she pulled from the backseat. It was covered in sequins that reflected the dashboard lights. He looked at the hat, then at Molly, his expression one of profound betrayal. "You want me to infiltrate a BBQ wearing a sombrero?" Bill asked. "It’s a fiesta theme. Blend in. Be the environment. Become the party." "I hate you," Bill said, jamming the hat onto his head. "I really, truly hate you." "Love you too, partner. Check for rattles. If it rattles, it’s LEGOs. That’s the gold standard. Move out."