Run: 2026-02-25-01KJ94STFZXJ8695XVA6X8CKA5

The interior of the rusted florist van smelled of stale coffee and unwashed laundry. Molly slapped a grainy photograph onto the dashboard, her eyes narrowed with the intensity of a diamond thief surveying a bank vault. It showed a brightly colored suburban backyard decorated with streamers that looked like police tape to her trained eyes. She checked her watch, a heavy military-grade piece that was definitely overkill for a Sunday afternoon in a quiet cul-de-sac. Give me the sit-rep, Bill, Molly said, her voice dropping to a gravelly whisper as she stared at the target house. Bill squinted at a hand-drawn diagram on a grease-stained napkin, his brow furrowing in deep concentration. The target is turning seven. There is a high probability of high-fructose corn syrup today. I also heard rumors of a chocolate fountain near the patio. Forget the sugar, Bill. Focus on the haul, Molly snapped, tapping a pen against the window glass as she watched a group of parents unload folding chairs. We are looking for the primary cache located adjacent to the inflatable slide. The bouncy castle? Bill asked, his eyes widening with genuine concern as he looked at the inflatable dragon swaying in the breeze. That is our extraction point, she explained, her finger tracing a path through the drawings of swing sets and sandbox zones. We go in during the third chorus of Happy Birthday. It is the perfect sonic shroud to mask the sound of the gift-bag rustling. Bill wiped sweat from his forehead with a crumpled invitation he had stolen from a mailbox. What about the clown? He looks shifty. He has been standing by the sandbox for twenty minutes. Giggles? He is a local mercenary, Molly muttered, dismissively waving a hand toward the windshield. For fifty bucks and a pack of menthols, he will look the other way. He is not the problem. Then what is? Bill asked, his voice trembling slightly as he gripped the van door handle. Toddlers, Bill. Dozens of them. They are loud, they are incredibly sticky, and they have no concept of personal space. Use the apple juice boxes to distract the sentries if they get too close. It works like a charm every time. I do not like it, Molly. Last time I did a backyard job, I stepped on a jagged LEGO piece. I still walk with a slight limp when it rains. That is the price of the trade. This is not just a pile of plastic garbage. There is a PlayStation in a box wrapped in dinosaur paper. My sources at the toy store are solid. A PlayStation for a seven-year-old? Bill scoffed, crossing his arms over his chest in a rare moment of moral indignation. That is a failing on the part of the parents. It is a redistribution of wealth, Molly corrected. We move in at fourteen-hundred hours. Check your gear. Bill patted his cargo pockets with a series of metallic thuds that betrayed the amount of junk he was carrying. I have the high-tensile Silly String, the ceremonial party blowers, and three extra-large trash bags. Good. Remember, if a child intercepts you, what is the protocol? I tell them I am the substitute magician, Bill recited clearly, standing as straight as his cramped position in the passenger seat allowed. And if they demand a trick? Molly pressed him, leaning closer to ensure he understood the gravity of the situation. I make their parents' electronics disappear? No, Bill! We discussed this. You pull a nickel out of their ear and run for the fence. We do not need the heat that comes with a kidnapping charge. Right, right. Nickels. I am just jittery. The bounce house is shaped like a dragon. It feels like an omen of failure. It is not an omen, it is a tactical advantage. We can use the tail as a rappelling point if the gate is guarded. Molly, it is filled with pressurized air. If we try to rappel off it, the entire structure will groan and collapse on us like a giant vinyl lung. Then we use the slide. Just ensure you do not get any cupcake frosting on the tactical turtlenecks. Is it really a tactical turtleneck if it is neon orange to match the party theme? Bill asked, looking down at his vibrant, itchy clothing. It is camouflage, Bill. We blend in with the traffic cones and the balloons. We are ghosts in a world of confetti. Now, put on your party hat and get ready. I really hope they have pigs in a blanket, Bill sighed, his stomach giving a loud, opportunistic growl. Stay focused on the dinosaur paper. Let us move out. Molly shifted the van into gear, the engine whining in protest as they began their slow crawl toward the curb.