Run: 2026-02-25-01KJ94KHKG8RDTRWYM5JDTDHX2

The interior of the rusted 1994 Econoline van was a masterpiece of specialized chaos, smelling faintly of engine grease and sour gummy worms. Molly sat hunched over a flickering monitor salvaged from a discarded security system, her eyes darting between the grainy feed and a hand-drawn blueprint of the Henderson’s backyard. She adjusted her tactical sunglasses with a gloved finger, ignoring the fact that the tint made it nearly impossible to see in the dim light of the vehicle. Outside the sliding door, the manicured lawns of Oak Street were bathed in the brutal glare of a suburban Sunday afternoon, a landscape filled with the high-pitched screams of twenty kindergarteners fueled by industrial-grade frosting. "Synchronize your juice boxes," Molly whispered, her voice tight with a tension usually reserved for high-stakes casino heists. Bill didn't look up from his task. He was meticulously coating his boots in a layer of non-stick cooking spray, a technique he swore would prevent the inevitable juice spills from compromising his traction. His utility belt was a testament to his unique brand of preparation, featuring several travel-sized bottles of hand sanitizer, a retractable grabber tool, and a pouch filled with organic fruit leathers for emergency distractions. He checked the tension on his belt and gave a solemn nod. "I don’t have a juice box, Molly. I have a thermos of lukewarm gravy," Bill replied, his brow furrowed in deep concentration. Molly ignored the culinary detour and pointed a laser pointer at a specific area of the blueprint labeled THE TREASURE TROVE. The table was draped in dinosaur-themed paper and groaned under the weight of several brightly wrapped boxes. Some were suspiciously rectangular, hinting at the high-density plastic bricks they craved, while others were soft and lumpy, clearly the safety sweaters gifted by distant aunts. "The target is the seventh birthday of Timothy Miller. Code name: Operation Sticky Fingers," Molly declared, her laser dot dancing over a stack of rectangular packages. She then shifted the dot to a large, inflated structure shaped like a dragon that dominated the center of the lawn. The beast heaved and sighed with every bounce, its plastic skin shimmering with a layer of static electricity and sweat. "Recount the primary defenses," Molly commanded, checking the zoom on her binoculars. Bill peered through the van’s cracked side window, his eyes narrowing as he assessed the threat level. "We’ve got a clown named Giggles who looks like he’s hiding a dark past. He’s currently distracted by a balloon animal malfunction. Furthermore, the sprinkler system is on a ten-minute cycle. My socks are already dreading the moisture." "That is tactical irrigation, Bill," Molly snapped, drumming her fingers against the dashboard. "We hit the Gift Table during the cake ceremony. When the sugar rush peaks, the parental peripheral vision drops by forty percent. That is our window." "What about the Moms’ Chardonnay Station?" Bill asked. Molly’s expression darkened. "The ultimate hazard. One glance from a PTA treasurer and our descriptions will hit every group chat in the zip code before we hit the curb. We have to use the bouncy castle for cover." "The static will ruin my hair," Bill muttered, checking his glitter cannons one last time. Molly pulled a black silk balaclava over her face and reached for the door handle. "For the Legos, Bill. This time, we’re playing for keeps."