Run: 2026-02-16-01KHM5K9D2FQ1C76S1SG9QQG6Q

The air in the cramped van was thick with the smell of old coffee and desperation. Molly sighed for what felt like the tenth time in as many minutes. "I'm just going to say it again," she started, not looking up from the brightly colored schematic laid out on a crate between them. "This feels... low." Bill adjusted the jeweler's loupe screwed into his eye, scrutinizing a grainy photograph. "It's not low, Molls. It's precision work. A soft target. Low security, high emotional payout." "High emotional payout? It's a six-year-old's birthday party. We're talking plastic dinosaurs and finger paint sets." "Nonsense!" Bill tapped the photo. "Little Tarquin Wellington-St. John. His father is 'Additive Manufacturing Solutions' CEO. That means cutting-edge, pricey toys. We're talking mini-drones with AI, interactive smart-globes, programmable robot dogs." "A robot dog?" Molly perked up slightly. "The Chihuahua 3000. Retails for eight hundred quid. Now, look here." He pointed a grimy finger at the schematic of the sprawling backyard. "Primary ingress is the side gate. It's a simple latch. Distraction will be the key." "What's the distraction? A fake ice cream truck? A rogue clown?" Bill smiled, a proud glint in his eye. "Better. *You* are the distraction." Molly stared at him. "Excuse me?" "You'll go as 'Auntie Marjorie,' a distant relative. You'll bring a large, cumbersome gift—a wobbly Jenga set, perhaps—and upon entering, you will tragically and noisily suffer a mild allergic reaction to the family cat." "I'm not allergic to cats." "Today you are! A few theatrical sneezes, a dramatic stumble into the buffet table. While all eyes are on you and the collapsing sausage rolls, I slip in through the gate, dressed as a caterer." "Caterer? Bill, you look like you wrestle badgers for a living." "That's what the uniform is for! I'll have a tray. Very official. I blend, I mingle, I identify the gift pile, and I start loading the tray. 'Just taking these to the gift-wrapping station, madam.' It's foolproof." "The gift-wrapping station? Who has a gift-wrapping station *at* the party?" "Rich people, Molly! They have stations for everything! A standing-still station! A leaf-appreciation station! Don't question the methodology." Molly massaged her temples. "Okay, say it works. Extraction?" "The same way. You, recovered from your 'fit,' offer to help the overwhelmed caterer—that's me—carry some of the heavier gifts inside. We walk right out the front door and into the van." "What about the actual caterers?" "We'll have a sign on the van that says 'Premium Catering.' They'll just think we're the B-team." A long silence filled the van, broken only by the distant sound of traffic. Molly finally looked at Bill, his face a mixture of sheer genius and utter madness. "So, to recap," she said slowly. "Our grand heist hinges on me fake-sneezing, you pretending to know how to carry a tray, and us hoping that a bunch of adults at a child's party are too polite to question a man carrying a pile of presents towards a van that says 'Premium Catering'." Bill beamed. "See? You've got it. It's elegant in its simplicity." Molly picked up the photograph of little Tarquin, who was staring blankly at an expensive-looking pony. She sighed one last, long sigh. "Fine. But I'm keeping the robot dog." "Deal," said Bill, slamming the schematic with his hand. "Operation: Ponies and Plunder is a go!"