Run: 2026-02-16-01KHM5JKVSCDYB3J0BZEQSS79V

The safe house smelled of stale coffee and desperation. Molly, her brow furrowed, stabbed a chipped fingernail at the schematics spread across the rickety table. "The target is a fortified, single-story dwelling in the suburbs. Perimeter is soft—no fence, just decorative shrubbery. But the interior will be a nightmare." Bill, polishing a lockpick set with a reverence usually reserved for holy relics, didn't look up. "Guards?" "Twenty-five, minimum. All under four feet tall, hopped up on sugar and sheer, unbridled chaos. They're called 'children,' Bill. They see everything." "Distractions?" "Manned by two adult units. Designation: 'Parents.' One will be permanently attached to a video recording device. The other will be frantically trying to inflate a dolphin-shaped pool toy with a faulty pump. Their focus will be split, but their hearing is unnervingly acute. They can detect the rustle of a glitter-glue cap from fifty yards." Bill finally met her gaze, a spark of professional interest in his eyes. "The payload?" "Mounds of it. Wrapped in deceptive, colorful paper. Intel suggests a high concentration of plastic, some electronic items, and at least one extremely loud, musical atrocity. Extraction is the problem. It's not like we can just stuff a Rembrandt into a bag. These parcels are bulky and irregular." "We go in as caterers," Bill said, snapping his pick case shut. "Mmm, no. The 'Pizza & Ponies' package is already booked. We'd need a health inspection certificate we don't have." Molly tapped a different part of the blueprint. "I propose we use the classic 'Disgruntled Relative' approach. We enter through the side gate, blending with the crowd. I'll cause a diversion at the piñata—a minor structural compromise, a sudden candy avalanche. The ensuing feeding frenzy will draw all eyes." Bill nodded slowly, a grin spreading. "While the tiny wolves are distracted, I slip into the gift-staging area. Probably the master bedroom. I’ll need a container." "Garbage bags. Large, black, nondescript. We load the loot, and we exfiltrate via the same gate, looking like helpful guests taking out the trash." Molly leaned back, a flicker of doubt crossing her face. "The variable is the birthday child. The primary. She’s six. That’s a wild card. Prone to unpredictable emotional outbursts." "So we avoid her. And the clown. I don't trust clowns. Their makeup is a perfect disguise, and their shoe technology is advanced." Bill stood, stretching. "Timing?" "Strike at 'Happy Birthday.' Maximum vocal cover. Everyone sings, nobody listens. That’s our window. Three minutes, in and out." "It’s clean. Simple. Almost elegant." Bill sighed, the weight of the operation settling on him. "You know, in all my years, I never thought I’d be planning a heist to steal a bunch of action figures and a kiddie keyboard." Molly folded the plans with a crisp finality. "A job’s a job, Bill. The client wants the presents, he gets the presents. His reasoning—'to teach his nephew about the crushing disappointment of existence'—is not our concern. We're professionals." "Right," Bill said, pocketing his tools. "Professionals. So, what's the take?" "Middling. But the real score is the principle. If we can pull this off in a house swarming with juice-boxed vigilantes, we can do anything." "Okay. I'll get the black bags. You work on your piñata sabotage face." "My game face is impeccable, thank you." Molly allowed herself a small, tight smile. "Now let's go. The party starts at two. We have a dolphin to inflate."