Bill adjusted the focus on his binoculars, the rubber eyepieces squeaking against his face. From their vantage point inside the unmarked bakery van, the suburban backyard looked deceptively innocent. Streamers fluttered in the wind. A piñata shaped like a donkey hung from a low branch, swaying with a silent, sugary menace. “Status report,” Molly whispered, though they were parked three hundred yards away. “We’ve got movement at the perimeter,” Bill muttered, hunched over the steering wheel. “Three, no, four tangos on the bouncy castle. They’re jumping. Erratically.” “They’re children, Bill. They’re bouncing. That’s what they do.” “It’s a distraction technique. Look at the patterns. They’re creating a visual blockade for the gift table.” Molly snatched the binoculars away and squinted at the patio. The table was piled high with glossy, wrapped boxes. It was the motherlode. A gaming console, a Lego set the size of a compact car, and enough gift cards to fund their escape to a non-extradition country. “We go in through the side gate,” Molly said, tracing a finger on the windshield. “Fast and quiet. Grab the goods, get out before the cake cutting.” “Negative,” Bill said, shaking his head gravely. “I’ve identified a high-level security operative. Southeast corner. Bright red nose. Oversized shoes.” Molly looked again. A clown was making balloon animals near the hedge. “That’s just Mr. Twisters. He’s harmless.” “He’s packing heat, Molly. Or at least, a balloon poodle. Either way, I don’t like the cut of his jib. He’s got eyes everywhere.” “He’s cross-eyed, Bill.” “Exactly. Unpredictable. He can see the front yard and the back fence simultaneously. We need a diversion.” Molly sighed, reaching into the glove compartment for a crumpled map. “We are not using the cat again. The S.W.A.T. team was embarrassing enough.” “Not the cat. I was thinking we wait for the sugar crash.” “That’s a two-hour window. We don’t have that kind of time.” “Fine. Plan B. I suit up. I go undercover.” Bill reached into the back seat and pulled out a bright yellow fedora. “You think a hat is going to make you invisible to a seven-year-old?” “It’s a party hat, Molly. I become one of them. I walk in, I do the Hokey Pokey, I take the presents out. It’s poetic.” “It’s idiotic. You look like a banana with a gambling problem.” “Trust me. It’s a textbook Trojan Horse. I’ll infiltrate the bouncy castle, create a localized deflate event, and in the chaos, we strike.” “You’re going to pop the bouncy castle?” “Tactical puncture. A tiny prick. No one gets hurt, everyone gets mildly disappointed.” “Fine,” Molly groaned. “But if you get stuck in the castle again like the Funland incident, I’m driving away.” “You wound me. I am a ghost. A phantom.” “You’re a menace. Put the hat on and check the perimeter one last time.” Bill jammed the yellow hat onto his head, clashing violently with his camouflage jacket. He raised the binoculars once more, scanning the horizon for threats, candy, and the terrifying, painted smile of Mr. Twisters. “Target locked,” Bill whispered. “Operation Sticky Fingers is a go.”