Run: 2026-02-24-01KJ8WK8R6ZY011G2AZQF2RX5X

The engine of Bill’s aging sedan coughed politely into the silence of the empty supermarket parking lot. Molly, perched in the passenger seat, was tapping a detailed schematic against the dashboard. “Okay, listen up. The target is a residential property on Maple Drive. The event is a sixth birthday party for one ‘Timmy.’ Scheduled occupancy: twelve minors, eight adults, and one registered clown.” Bill stared at the hand-drawn map covered in arrows and timestamps. “A clown. You’re telling me our security threat assessment includes a man who makes balloon poodles.” “His name is Bubbles, and he’s a wild card. We treat him as a mobile hazard. Now, the primary objective is in the living room, under the paper-covered table.” She pointed a manicured finger at a square on the map. “The presents.” “The haul, Bill. The mother posted the gift registry. We’re looking at a Lego Millennium Falcon, a kid’s digital camera, several gaming gift cards, and an alarming amount of cash in decorative envelopes.” Bill rubbed his temples. “We’re gonna boost a six-year-old’s birthday. The gang’s all here. What’s the play? Do we go in disguised as piñatas?” “We use the chaos of the cake-and-sing,” Molly said, ignoring him. “That’s H-Hour. All adult eyes will be on the target blowing out candles. I’ll create a diversion near the patio doors—a minor allergic reaction to imaginary bees. While the crowd is distracted, you slip in from the side gate, grab the loot bag we’ve pre-scoped, and exfiltrate to the fallback point.” “The fallback point being my car, which still smells like your onion bagel from Tuesday. What about the parents? The dad looks like he plays weekend rugby.” “That’s why we’re professionals, Bill. We don’t engage. We’re in and out in ninety seconds. It’s a cakewalk. Literally.” “And the moral dimension? Stealing from a child? My therapist is gonna need a new boat.” Molly sighed, a long-suffering sound. “We’re not stealing from a child. We’re liberating overpriced plastic from a corrupt system of obligatory gift-giving. We’re anarchists. Now, your exit route is crucial. You avoid the lawn where the clown will be—he’s got eyes in the back of his rainbow wig. Stick to the hedge line.” “What’s our contingency if the birthday boy spots me?” “You give him this.” Molly handed Bill a wrapped lollipop. “It’s a bribe. A sweet, silent bribe.” Bill took the lollipop, his expression grim. “I got out of Sing Sing for grand theft auto. I’m taking orders from a woman with a glitter pen plan to knock over a Lego set.” “The Lego set retails for six hundred dollars, Bill. It’s a high-value, low-security score. Now, do you remember the signal?” “Yeah. You sneeze twice for ‘go,’ and pretend to faint for ‘abort.’ This is the dumbest thing we’ve ever done.” Molly grinned, her eyes gleaming. “That’s what you said about the petting zoo job. And we got that prized miniature goat.” “His name was Kevin,” Bill muttered, starting the car. “And he hated me.”