Run: 2026-02-16-01KHM60CP67AAK0BJH25R5JCVK

The air in the storage unit was thick with dust and the smell of forgotten things. Molly, perched on an old steamer trunk, watched Bill pace. “It’s airtight,” Bill said, jabbing a finger at the blueprint spread over a cardboard box. “The Henderson job. Saturday, two PM. The back garden is a fortress of bouncy castles and sheer, unadulterated chaos. Perfect camouflage.” Molly polished an apple on her sleeve. “The mark?” “Seven-year-old Timmy Henderson. His father is Arthur ‘Artie the Accountant’ Henderson. He launders money for the Vincenzo family through a chain of whimsical toy stores. The birthday haul is estimated at five grand, retail. Probably double in unreported cash stuffed inside cards from shady uncles.” “So we’re not actually stealing from a child,” Molly clarified, taking a loud bite. “We are *technically* stealing from a child,” Bill admitted, scratching his chin. “But philosophically, we’re reallocating ill-gotten gains. It’s a victimless crime, if you ignore the probable tantrum.” “And the security?” “One harried nanny, two grandparents likely sedated by noise, and fifteen sugar-fueled miniature sociopaths. Our point of entry is the side gate. It’s got one of those child-proof latch things.” “You can’t open a child-proof latch?” “It’s not the *opening*, Molly, it’s the *doing it while dressed as a giant cartoon bee* that presents the challenge.” Bill held up a depressingly fuzzy costume. “The party theme is ‘Garden Friends.’ I’m Buzzbee. You’re Lil’ Ladybug.” Molly stared at the red and black-spotted lump he tossed to her. “I draw the line at antennae.” “The antennae are non-negotiable! They sell the bit! We waddle in, we mingle, we do the awkward pollinator dance with the kids. During the cake-and-meltdown phase, we slip into the house. Presents are stacked in the living room, right next to the patio doors.” “Extraction?” “Same way. We load the gifts into our ‘party prop’ bags, wave our creepy glove-hands, and buzz off. The van is parked two blocks over, marked ‘Honey-Do Event Services.’ It’s poetic.” Molly sighed, poking a finger through a hole in the ladybug costume. “What’s our cover when the nanny asks who we are?” “We’re from the ‘Imaginative Playmates’ company. A surprise gift from Uncle Vinnie.” “And if there’s already an ‘Imaginative Playmates’ bee and ladybug there?” Bill blinked. “That’s a risk. But in my experience, organized crime doesn’t double-book entertainers. It’s bad for business.” He folded the blueprint. “Look, the beauty is the simplicity. No lasers, no silent alarms, just a gauntlet of toddlers and cake smears. Our greatest threat is a four-year-old with a juice box and a vendetta.” Molly finished her apple and tossed the core into a dark corner. “The bee costume. Does it have a zipper? I need a quick escape route.” “It’s a pull-over, I’m afraid. Commitment to the role is key. If you need to flee, you’ll have to do it with dignity, as a large, fleeing insect.” He offered a hopeful smile. “So? Are you in?” She looked from the sad ladybug suit to the blueprints, then back to Bill’s earnest face. “Five grand, you said?” “Minimum. And whatever’s in the cards. Maybe bonds.” Molly stood up, brushing dust from her pants. “Fine. But I’m not answering to ‘Lil’ Ladybug.’ Call me Beatrice. It’s classier.” She picked up the costume, holding it at arm’s length. “And we’re stopping for industrial-strength deodorant. That bouncy castle is going to be a sweatbox.”