Run: 2026-02-18-01KHQ92NC8J2GC880E54WBY68F

Molly spread the hand-drawn map across the hood of the rusted Pontiac and smoothed out the corners with her palms. The crayon drawing had been lifted from the refrigerator of their target, a seven-year-old named Madison who apparently had very strong opinions about where the bouncy castle should go. "Okay, walk me through it," Bill said, pulling his black turtleneck up over his chin despite the fact that it was eighty-two degrees outside. "The party starts at two. By two-fifteen, the kids are in the backyard doing whatever it is kids do. Musical chairs. Screaming. Existing aggressively." "Right, right." "We go in through the side gate here," Molly tapped the crayon drawing, "which Madison has helpfully labeled as the side gate here in purple marker." Bill leaned in and squinted. "She spelled it s-i-d-e g-a-y-t." "She's seven, Bill." "I'm just saying, our intel has limitations." Molly rolled her eyes so hard she briefly saw the back of her own skull. The neighborhood around them was perfectly quiet, lined with oak trees and sensible sedans. A place where nothing bad ever happened, which was precisely why they had chosen it. "The presents get stacked on the table in the dining room. We've confirmed this from three separate birthday party photographs posted publicly on the mother's social media." "She really should update her privacy settings," Bill said, shaking his head with what appeared to be genuine concern. "That is not our problem. Our problem is getting in, grabbing the gifts, and getting out before the clown finishes his set." Bill straightened up. "There's a clown?" "There is a clown." "Molly, I have to be honest with you as both a partner and a friend. I don't like this." "You don't have to like the clown. You just have to work around the clown." Bill began pacing the gravel shoulder of the road, his hands clasped behind his back like a general contemplating a siege he had serious reservations about. A squirrel watched him from a nearby branch with what seemed like professional judgment. "What's his radius of movement?" Bill asked. "The clown's radius of movement." "The clown's radius of movement, yes." Molly stared at him for a long moment. Somewhere down the street a lawn mower droned in peaceful ignorance of the conversation taking place. She had known Bill for eleven years, had trusted him through fourteen jobs, two near-arrests, and one deeply unfortunate incident involving a llama, and still there were days when she looked at him and felt the word why form silently in her chest. "We are not doing clown surveillance, Bill." "I'm just saying a professional knows his environment." "Our environment is a child's birthday party." "Which has a clown in it!" Molly folded up the map, tucked it into her jacket pocket, and walked back toward the car. "Be ready at one forty-five," she said. "And leave the turtleneck."