Run: 2026-02-25-01KJ95T0HFBAFRF6E5H5ZVA8FC

Molly lay flat against the freshly manicured lawn, her nose buried in a patch of invasive clover. The target was fifty feet away, a white wooden gazebo currently overflowing with brightly wrapped boxes that promised a bounty of high-end toy electronics and limited-edition action figures. She adjusted her tactical goggles, which were actually modified swimming eyewear coated in matte black spray paint. They provided nearly zero visibility in the bright afternoon sun, but she felt they heightened her other senses through sheer sensory deprivation. They were currently positioned behind a decorative stone frog that Bill had nicknamed Gerald. Is the bouncy castle at full pressure? Molly asked. Bill, crouched beside her in a matching turtleneck that was far too tight for a humid July afternoon, checked his plastic stopwatch with a grim expression. He wiped a bead of sweat from his forehead, trying not to smear the charred cork camouflage he had applied to his cheeks before they exited the van. It is a structural hazard, Bill replied. The air pressure is high. The children are ready for cake. They are like small, sugar-fueled sticks of dynamite. Molly looked through her binoculars, which were two toilet paper rolls taped together with electrical tape. The suburban landscape was a minefield of colorful plastic hazards. A stray tricycle sat overturned like a dead beetle in their path, and an automatic sprinkler system threatened to ruin their knitted disguises at any moment. She could feel the heat radiating off the brick patio, shimmering like a desert mirage. Molly checked her utility belt, which was actually a carpenter apron she had dyed dark navy. It held several essential items: a juice-box straw for silent breathing, sticky-tack for silencing squeaky hinges, and a map of the backyard drawn in scented markers. The target is the gazebo, Molly said. Aim for the LEGOs. No sweaters. We are thieves, Bill, not a thrift store donation bin. Bill shifted his weight, his knees cracking loudly like dry twigs in the quiet afternoon air. He clutched a mesh bag filled with oversized marbles, his primary weapon for the retreat. He looked toward the patio where a man in a polka-dot suit was struggling to inflate a long, skinny balloon for a line of impatient toddlers. The clown makes me nervous, Bill whispered. He has been watching this hydrangea bush for five minutes with deep professional suspicion. He is not watching us, Molly insisted. He is a distraction specialist. He is waiting for the balloon animal quota to be met. It is psychological warfare. A golden retriever wandered past their hiding spot, sniffing at the mulch with casual indifference. Molly held her breath, her fingers gripping the dirt. The animal was a professional, much like themselves, and recognized the code of the street. The dog paused, looked directly at the two adults in wool masks laying in the garden, and then decided a discarded cocktail sausage near the grill was much more enticing. I still think the balaclavas are a mistake for a garden party, Bill said, scratching his nose. We stick out. Everyone else here is wearing linen. Professionals do not show their faces, Molly said. If the toddler sees us, he will testify. Children have terrifyingly good memories. Do you have the tool? I have the safety scissors, Bill said. Good, Molly said. When the singing starts, we move.