Molly adjusted the focal length on her military-grade binoculars, the rubberized rim digging a permanent groove into her brow bone. Below them, situated at the end of a pristine cul-de-sac, the suburban fortress was a minefield of oversized inflatable balloons and screaming, sugar-fueled toddlers. It was a Tuesday, which meant the parents were likely too exhausted by the grind of the work week to mount a competent defense against professional adversaries. "I count twelve targets on the lawn," Molly whispered, her voice tight with professional focus. "Ages four to six. High energy, erratic movement patterns, and zero regard for personal space." Bill shifted in the passenger seat, the vinyl squeaking under his tactical weight. He was currently wearing a ghillie suit improvised from old Christmas tinsel, which was currently itching his neck and shedding glitter onto the gear shift. "Do we have a visual on the payload?" Bill asked, scratching his chin vigorously. "I need to know if this is a Legos and socks situation, or if we're looking at high-value electronics." "I see wrapping paper with the Apple logo, Bill," Molly replied, lowering the binoculars to glare at him. "We are talking iPads, maybe a few Nintendo Switches. The mother just walked out with a cake shaped like a castle. That screams disposable income." "I don't know, Molly," Bill said, peering through the windshield with a frown. "Stealing from a bank is one thing. Those deposit boxes are insured. These kids are going to remember this forever. It’s character building trauma." "It’s a victimless crime, Bill. These kids have so many toys they probably forgot what they opened ten minutes ago. We’re just streamlining their playroom." Bill squinted at the patio where the parents were congregating. The father was indeed wobbling, holding a spatula like a deputy’s baton. "Fine. What’s the entry point? I don't want to crawl through the petting zoo again. The goats are hostile." "We go through the bouncy castle," Molly commanded, pointing a gloved finger toward the massive inflatable fortress anchored near the fence line. "It creates a perfect blind spot. We scale the fence, bounce over the perimeter, and slip in through the sliding glass door." "We have to bounce? My knees aren't what they used to be. And what if there are kids inside? I can't be fighting a five-year-old for airtime, Molly. They play dirty." "There are no kids inside. They're all watching the magician. You have exactly four minutes while he pulls a rabbit out of a hat. Get in, grab the gifts, get out." Bill sighed, checking his equipment one last time. He looked at his lockpicks, his flashlight, and the large, conspicuous Santa sack he had brought along for the haul. "Okay. But if I see a pony, I'm out. I have a phobia." "It’s a magical day, Bill. The pony is the least of your worries. Now, put on your disguise." Molly handed him a pair of oversized, novelty sunglasses with a fake nose and mustache attached. "I hate this life," Bill muttered, sliding the glasses onto his face. "You love it. Now move. The cake is being cut."