Run: 2026-02-25-01KJ958PY3V1HK5YF146T5XP4G

Molly adjusted her binoculars, her knuckles white against the plastic casing. Across the street, the target shifted. A bouncy castle inflated like a tactical lung, neon orange and pulsing with the high-pitched screams of the innocent. Look at them, Bill, she whispered. They think they are safe behind that white picket fence. Bill shifted uncomfortably in the passenger seat of their dented sedan. He was struggling to pull a pair of oversized khaki shorts over his utility belt. It is a seven-year-old's birthday party, Molly. I still think the tactical turtlenecks are overkill. Do you want the Lego Star Destroyer or do you want to keep living in a basement? I like my basement. It does not have clowns. That is not a clown, Bill. That is a distraction. I have checked his credentials. He is a freelance balloon artist named Gary with a history of slow knot-tying. We have a three-minute opening during the construction of the inflated giraffe. Molly tapped a grainy photograph of a gift table stacked high with shimmering paper and curly ribbons. The primary objective is the pile near the punch bowl. We hit when the candles are lit. Why then? Bill asked. Fire, Bill. It is a Pavlovian response. Everyone looks at the flame. They sing that repetitive, haunting anthem. Their peripheral vision drops to zero. We move like shadows between the pinata and the juice boxes. I am not sure I can move like a shadow in this Hawaiian shirt. You are the fun uncle. That is your cover. If anyone asks, you are Uncle Steve from the Nebraska branch of the family. I do not know anything about Nebraska. Just mention corn and depressing football stats. They will leave you alone. Bill stared at the house. He watched a toddler trip over a sprinkler and begin a rhythmic, high-pitched wail. The perimeter is breached, he noted. We have a casualty in sector four. Molly checked her watch. It was a digital Casio she had synced to the local church bells for maximum precision. Ignore the distractions. It is a cold world, Bill. One minute you are eating a cupcake, the next you are wondering where your limited-edition action figures went. Do we really need the smoke bombs? They are strawberry scented. It fits the birthday aesthetic. I just feel like stealing from a kid named Tyler is a new low for us. His name is Barnaby, and his father owns a hedge fund. This is wealth redistribution at its most festive. Bill sighed and checked his pockets for the getaway car keys. What is the signal again? If I hawk like a red-tailed hawk, we abort. If I chirp like a sparrow, the presents are ours. You cannot do a sparrow. You sound like a rusty garden gate. Fine. If I scream that the cake is a lie, we run for the car. I can work with that, Bill said.