Run: 2026-02-20-01KHYA96V362WX12D2NH7MD65F

The linoleum of the diner booth stuck to Molly’s scuffed boots as she stirred lukewarm coffee, the diner’s jukebox blaring an off-key Christmas carol in the background, the spoon clinking against the mug’s chipped rim. “You dragged me out here at 7 a.m. for a children’s party?” Bill slammed a crumpled flyer on the table, paper smudged with ketchup. “Daycare annual winter bash—top-tier parents, top-tier presents.” “Presents?” Molly snickered, picking at a chipped nail. “You mean stuffed bears and crayon sets that break after five minutes?” “Please,” Bill huffed, leaning in, breath reeking of burnt bacon. “I scouted last week—designer dollhouses with working elevators, electric skateboards with GPS, gift cards to that luxury toy store on Main. One dad dropped off a custom mountain bike worth three grand, wrapped in gold paper.” “Three grand?” Molly’s eyebrow lifted, smirk fading. “Why’s a seven-year-old getting that?” “Beats me,” Bill said, tapping the flyer’s “volunteer needed” note. “Point is, easy pickings—no security, just harried parents sipping spiced cider.” “Easy? Kids are walking alarms,” Molly said. “One tantrum and the place locks down.” “Foolproof plan,” Bill grinned. “Clown costumes—cousin’s a vendor, lends ’em. We pretend to be hired entertainment.” “Clowns?” Molly groaned. “I can’t twist a balloon into a lopsided dog. Last time I popped one and made my niece cry for an hour.” “You don’t have to,” Bill said. “I’ll do face painting and balloons to occupy kids. You ‘help’ with gifts—sneak good stuff into a hollowed prop cake I’ll bring. Hidden compartment fits the bike frame and cards.” “Hollowed cake?” Molly said. “What if someone cuts it early?” “Decoy—swap with real cake before gift opening,” Bill said. “Got fake hologram badges from my printer buddy too.” “Background checks?” Molly asked. “Daycares do those. We’ve got warrants.” “Cousin’s daycare friend signs off on fake apps—owes him a favor,” Bill said. “No red flags.” “Split?” Molly crossed her arms. “60-40, my cut first.” “55-45,” Bill negotiated. “I supply costumes, cake, getaway van, badges—more work.” “55-45 only if you handle fire drill prep,” Molly said. “I trigger the smoke detector—five minutes to haul loot. You park van back, engine running.” “Fire department’ll show up,” Bill panicked. “False alarm—they take ten minutes to reach the busy area,” Molly said. “We’ll be at drop point before they arrive.” “You in?” Bill nodded, sticking out a hand. “55-45, I handle van, costumes, cake, background fix. You do gifts and detector.” “Drop point?” Molly shook his hand. “Abandoned laundromat on 5th, broken neon sign—meet an hour post-heist to split.” “7 a.m. clown fitting at cousin’s tomorrow?” Molly stood to leave. “7 a.m. sharp,” Bill said, tucking the flyer away. “Don’t be late—he’s picky about red noses.”