Run: 2026-02-16-01KHM5D5DRTHYW83R9S3008D59

The air in the van was thick with the smell of stale coffee and poor life choices. Molly, her face a mask of intense focus, stabbed a finger at a child’s crayon drawing taped to the van's wall. It depicted a sprawling suburban house, labelled "The Villa." “The primary entry point is here,” she began, her voice low and serious. “The conservatory. The lock is a standard Yale. The target, codename: ‘Presents,’ will be concentrated under the ‘Tree of Giving’ in the main living area.” Bill, hunched over a laptop displaying live footage from a drone disguised as a sparrow, shook his head. “The conservatory is a no-go, Moll. The ‘Duchess’—that’s the family cat—has taken up residence on the wicker sofa. She’s unpredictable. A loose cannon.” Molly sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. “We are not being foiled by a tabby cat named Mr. Snuggles, Bill.” “Intel says the Duchess has a mean streak,” Bill insisted, zooming in on the feline. “See the look in her eyes? That’s the look of a professional. She’d sell us out for a handful of tuna. We need to go in through the playroom. The window latch is faulty.” “The playroom is a deathtrap!” Molly hissed. “It’s a minefield of Lego bricks and those little plastic tiles with the letters that are always missing the ‘E’. One misstep and we’re crawling out of there whimpering. Our exit strategy would be compromised.” “Fine,” Bill conceded, tapping a new key. “Then we create a diversion. We use the ‘Squeaky Chicken’ protocol.” He held up a garishly yellow rubber chicken. “Absolutely not. The acoustic profile is too unpredictable. We need something subtler. Something that blends in.” She reached into a duffel bag and pulled out a large, brightly coloured piñata shaped like a unicorn. “We go in as caterers. Specifically, the piñata delivery team. This gets us inside the perimeter. You create a minor incident with the punch bowl—a spill, something non-lethal—to draw the primary guardian, ‘Mum,’ away from the loot.” Bill’s eyes lit up. “I can do that. I’ve been practising my ‘clumsy oaf’ routine.” “I know,” Molly said flatly. “It’s why I hired you. While you’re providing the distraction, I’ll secure the assets into the ‘Sack of Infinite Holding’.” She held up a giant Santa sack. “What about the secondary guardians? The ‘Other Mums’? They’re a hardened bunch. They’ve survived soft play centres. They’ll see right through us.” “We use psychological warfare,” Molly stated. “We hit them with a relentless barrage of inane questions about school catchment areas and the gluten-free credentials of the cake. They’ll be too busy trying to one-up each other to notice a systematic looting operation. Our exit is the same way we came in. We just look like two very enthusiastic, slightly frazzled party planners leaving with a very full-looking piñata.” Bill nodded, a slow grin spreading across his face. “It’s beautiful, Moll. A real piece of work. But what’s the contingency for the ‘Tantrum Protocol’? You know, if the ‘Small Human’ assets become volatile?” Molly’s expression turned grim. “That’s the one variable we can’t control. If a meltdown occurs… we drop the unicorn piñata and we run. We run like the wind, Bill. No one survives a four-year-old’s meltdown. Not even us.” She looked him dead in the eye. “You ready for this?” Bill picked up the rubber chicken and gave it a tentative squeak. “I was born ready. Let’s go steal some presents.”