Molly adjusted the focus on her binoculars, the rubber eyepieces squishing against her face like angry marshmallows. From their vantage point behind the azalea bushes, the suburban backyard looked less like a birthday party and more like a high-security containment facility for sugar-fueled maniacs. She scanned the perimeter, noting the chaotic movement of tiny humans wielding foam swords. "I don't like the look of the one in the cape," Bill whispered, crouching low beside her. He was dressed in a black tactical turtleneck that was entirely too warm for mid-July. "He’s got shifty eyes. I think he made us." "He’s four, Bill. He’s looking for the piñata," Molly replied, lowering the binoculars to glare at him. "And pull your mask up; you look like a cat burglar who got lost on the way to a bank." "I'm trying to blend in with the shadows," Bill argued, gesturing to the bright sunlight beating down on them. "Besides, the target is heavy. Did you see the haul? That mountain of presents has to be worth at least three grand on the resale market. I saw a standalone castle back there. Lego. Collector's edition." "Focus on the extraction," Molly said, checking her watch. "We have a window of exactly four minutes while they bring out the cake. The parents will be distracted by the lighting of the candles. That is our entry vector. You grab the big box with the blue wrapping paper, I’ll handle the red wagon." Bill shifted his weight, his knees cracking audibly. "It feels wrong, Molly. Stealing from kids? It’s a new low. Even for us." "We aren't stealing from kids. We are liberating plastic from the unappreciative grasp of toddlers who will play with the box it came in," Molly countered, checking the zipper on her loot bag. "Besides, we’re professionals. We don't do morals; we do margins." "What if they cry?" Bill asked, his voice trembling slightly. "I can't handle the crying. It’s a frequency that destroys my soul." "They won't cry because they'll be in a sugar coma. Now, look at the dad. He’s manning the grill. He’s the primary threat. He looks like he takes his medium-rare steaks very seriously." "He’s wearing a 'Kiss the Cook' apron," Bill noted with a sigh. "I miss the days when we robbed art museums. At least the alarm systems didn't throw temper tantrums." "The security here is tighter than the Louvre," Molly muttered. "Did you see the bouncy castle? It’s a death trap. One wrong step and you’re airborne. We go around the side, avoid the clown—seriously, do not engage the clown—and we grab the goods." "The clown has a water squirter," Bill warned. "I saw him drench a kid earlier. He’s unpredictable. A wild card." "Clowns are just men in makeup, Bill. Now, on my signal. Three, two, one. Go, go, go." They scrambled from the bushes, moving in a low crouch across the manicured lawn. The sound of "Happy Birthday" rang out from the patio, providing perfect auditory cover for their sprint toward the gift table. Bill stumbled over a rogue scooter but recovered with surprising grace. "Target acquired," Bill whispered, grabbing the large blue box. "Red wagon secured," Molly hissed, hoisting the handle. Suddenly, a small voice cut through the air. A little girl in a princess dress stood three feet away, eating a cupcake. She stared at them with wide, frosting-smeared eyes. "Are you Santa's helpers?" she asked. Bill froze, looking at Molly in panic. "Uh, yes," he stammered. "We're... uh... outsourcing." "We're doing a quality control check," Molly added, backing away slowly. "Carry on, citizen." As they bolted for the fence, Bill panted, "I told you the cape kid was onto us." "Just run, Bill! Run and don't look back at the cupcakes!"