Run: 2026-02-16-01KHM5E3R6XJPX24FVASFB4JAJ

The air in the rusty van was thick with the smell of old coffee and desperation. Molly squinted at the crayon-coloured invitation in her hands. "The party of the century," she read aloud, her voice flat. "For Hailey, Age Six. Clowns, a bouncy castle, and a piñata shaped like a unicorn. Our point of entry is a garden gate secured with, and I quote, 'a sparkly purple latch.'" Bill, polishing a lens on a pair of binoculars, grunted. "Intel says the loot is prime. Grandma from Boca sent a solid gold rattle. Aunt Karen went for limited-edition plastic ponies. The mother, a dentist, is giving out goody bags containing those tiny, high-quality fluoride toothpastes. Black market value is steady." "Fluoride toothpaste?" Molly lowered the invitation. "Bill, we're discussing the theft of developmental toys and confectionery from a child's birthday party. We've hit museum archives, we've bypassed laser grids at the Zurich Depository. This is a new low." "It's a soft target!" Bill insisted, tapping a hand-drawn map of the suburban backyard. "The security is a single, distracted father named Keith who will be manning the barbecue. His threat level is 'moderate grease flare-up.' The perimeter is noisy, covered by shrieking minors, which provides perfect audio camouflage. Our exit strategy is blending in with the pizza delivery guy." Molly pinched the bridge of her nose. "And the extraction? We just walk out with a sack full of presents shaped like building blocks and plush dragons?" "See, that's where you're thinking like a common burglar, not an artist," Bill said, his eyes gleaming. "We go in disguised. I'll be 'Uncle Steve,' the quirky magician. You can be 'Aunt Brenda,' the face-painter with a suspiciously efficient bag for her 'supplies.' We work the room, endear ourselves, and during the cake-cutting chaos—when all adult eyes are glued to the kid with the knife—we sweep the gift table." "The piñata," Molly said, after a long pause. "What about it?" "It's a unicorn. I want the unicorn piñata, Bill. Not just the candy inside. The whole papier-mâché monstrosity. It's a statement piece." Bill stared at her. "It's a central feature of the party. Keith will be blindfoldedly swinging a plastic bat at it at approximately 3:45 PM. Its disappearance will be immediate and emotionally devastating." "Exactly," Molly said, a slow smile spreading across her face. "They'll be so busy consoling the birthday girl over the lost unicorn, they won't even notice the presents are gone until we're halfway to the fence. It's misdirection. Classic." A reluctant respect dawned on Bill's face. "You're a monster. I like it. But how do you smuggle out a four-foot-tall unicorn?" Molly leaned forward. "Your magic act. The 'disappearing unicorn' trick. You wheel in a big box for your props. The unicorn goes in the false bottom. We leave behind a cloud of glitter and a lingering sense of betrayal." Bill nodded slowly, tracing the route on the map. "Okay. Okay! We go in at 2:30, during the peak bouncy castle congestion. We exfiltrate at 4:00, during the post-cake sugar crash. The van is parked on Maple, not directly outside. It's clean, it's smart." "It's pathetic," Molly sighed, but she was folding the map with a practiced hand. "What's our fallback if Keith gets suspicious?" Bill held up a small, wrapped box. "We give a better gift. A remote-controlled car, from 'Uncle Steve.' It buys goodwill and, more importantly, time. Now, do you want to be the princess face-painter or the butterfly face-painter? I need to know for the kit." Molly looked at the glittering, terrible invitation one last time. "Princess. Definitely princess. It's more ironic." She started the van. "Let's go rob a six-year-old."