Bill adjusted the focus on his binoculars, the rubber eyepieces squeaking against the glass. Below them, the suburban backyard resembled a war zone populated by sugared-up six-year-olds and a bouncy castle that swayed menacingly in the wind. To the untrained eye, it was a celebration of life; to Bill, it was a fortress of high-value assets. He scratched his chin, feeling the stubble where a fake beard would soon sit. Their target wasn’t a bank vault or a museum display case, but rather the pile of shiny parcels stacked on the picnic table. Inside those boxes lay the kind of electronic loot that fences paid top dollar for before the holidays. Molly sat in the driver’s seat, scratching out tactical diagrams on a greasy napkin. She mapped the choke points near the swing set and the blind spots behind the oak tree. The primary obstacle wasn't the parents, who were currently distracted by a keg, but the erratic movement of the tiny humans. "The clown is the variable," Bill whispered, gesturing toward a man inflating balloon animals. "He's just a guy in polyester," Molly said. "He makes swords," Bill countered. "We wait for the cake," Molly ordered. She sighed, checking her watch. They had a five-minute window before the sugar crash.