Run: 2026-02-24-01KJ8WZGX7G2V0419DP5SC9FMV

The van smelled of stale french fries and desperation. Molly, her auburn hair pulled into a severe ponytail, tapped a laser pointer against a schematic taped to the wall. It was a detailed, hand-drawn map of 14 Cherry Lane, featuring a startlingly accurate rendition of a garden gnome. “This is the primary ingress point,” she stated, the red dot hovering over a patio door. “French doors, likely flimsy lock. The real variable is the patrol pattern.” Bill, a mountain of a man trying to fit his bulk into a folding chair, squinted at the diagram. “The dad?” “The dad,” Molly confirmed. “He’ll be manning the barbecue. A known distraction. But the secondary threat is the grandmother. She’s got sharp eyes and a handbag that could stun an ox. She’s the wild card.” Bill scratched his stubble. “So we go in during the cake chaos. Standard noise diversion.” “We *create* the cake chaos,” Molly corrected, a gleam in her eye. She pointed to a new sheet. “This is a schematic of a ‘Bob the Builder’ piñata. My source confirms it’s filled with miniature chocolate bars and cheap whistles. I propose we introduce a remote-controlled squirrel to the party. It creates a spectacle, the kids swarm, the adults are confused. We have a ninety-second window.” Bill leaned back, the chair groaning in protest. “A remote squirrel. To steal a six-year-old’s loot. Molly, are we the baddies?” “We’re professionals, Bill. The mark is a child of privilege, one Landon P. Whittaker III. His father owns a chain of mattress warehouses. The haul is estimated at high-end plastic. We’re talking interactive dinosaurs, premium building blocks, possibly a junior chemistry set with mild irritants.” “I still think the clown is a liability.” “The clown is essential,” Molly hissed. “He’s our inside man. He’ll be performing a ‘magic’ act involving twenty liters of bubble solution. That creates a visual screen near the gift table. You’ll be dressed as a second, slightly sadder clown. You blend, you grab, you exfiltrate via the side gate.” Bill looked mournfully at the oversized, polka-dotted suit hanging in the van. “I don’t like the shoes. They squeak.” “The squeak sells the character! Now, the extraction vehicle.” She pointed to a photo of a brightly colored ice cream truck. “We’ve acquired this. It’s perfect camouflage. Once you’re in, we load the goods into the freezer compartment, behind the Neapolitan stock.” “What about the actual ice cream?” “That’s your distraction. Free cones for any minor who looks like they might raise an alarm. It’s a dual-purpose vehicle.” Molly allowed herself a small, proud smile. “It’s elegant, Bill. A symphony of misdirection.” Bill sighed, a sound like a deflating air mattress. “Fine. But if I have to make a balloon animal, I’m only doing the sword. It’s the only one I know.” “The sword is aggressive. Stick to a simple poodle.” Molly rolled up the plans. “Remember, the clock starts when the first candle is lit. Synchronize your watches. And for heaven’s sake, don’t eat the cake. We need you agile.” “Agile,” Bill muttered, staring at the clown shoes. “Right.” He had a sudden, vivid image of being chased by an angry grandmother wielding a handbag, a trail of squeaks marking his path to infamy. It wasn’t exactly the Louvre, but it was a job.