Run: 2026-03-11-01KKFKKBJ7CDB3X2QDAWGG1D96

The van was parked two houses down, engine idling like a restless dog. Molly adjusted her black beanie, peering through the binoculars at the ranch-style house. Number 14. Balloons bobbed at the mailbox. “Okay, Bill. Party’s in full swing. Three more hours until the parents start that liqueur-soaked ‘cake and coffee’ hour. That’s our window.” Bill, already in full black, though his shirt had a small embroidered cartoon dog on the chest, nodded. “Got it. So, standard infiltration?” “There’s nothing standard about this,” Molly said, flipping open her notebook. “Primary entrance is the back door, past the gazing ball. Security is lax—just a single Rottweiler named Bubbles.” “Bubbles?” “Don’t let the name fool you. She’s a certified ankle-biter. Distraction required.” Molly tapped the page. “You’re on Bubbles duty. The squeaker from that rubber duck you’re carrying.” “Right.” Bill held up a giant, grinning rubber duck. “And once past the perimeter?” “We gain entry to the garage, which has interior access to the kitchen. The presents are in the sunroom, staged on a table shaped like a turtle. It’s a coordinated snatch-and-grab. I’ll handle the presents; you’re on lookout for the clown.” Bill shuddered. “Clown. Why did you have to say clown?” “Because he’s there, Bill. Big red shoes, face paint, probably making balloon animals. He’s the wild card. If he heads toward the sunroom, you engage.” “Engage how? Talk about the weather?” “You tell him you’ve forgotten how to make a poodle. Ask for a demonstration. Anything to delay.” Molly snapped her notebook shut. “Questions?” “Yeah. Why are we stealing a six-year-old’s birthday presents? There’s got to be an easier score.” Molly sighed, a sound of profound professional disappointment. “The intelligence report, which I spent two weeks compiling, indicates the presence of a limited-edition, mint-in-box Galactic Commander playset. It’s worth four figures on the collector’s market. The other stuff is just window dressing. The plush giraffe, the art kit, the suspiciously loud keyboard… it’s all gravy.” “Gravy,” Bill repeated, looking thoughtful. “You think there’ll be any actual gravy?” “The mission is the playset, Bill. Focus.” “Right. Playset. Gravy is a bonus.” He took a deep breath. “Okay. Let’s do this. For Galactic Commander.” “And for gravy,” Molly added, pulling her mask down. “Now move. And for God’s sake, leave the duck in the van.” “But—” “The squeaker, Bill. It’s for Bubbles, not for you.” Bill reluctantly placed the duck on the dashboard. “Fine. But if I have to improvise, I’m blaming you.” They slipped from the van and moved toward the fence, two shadows trying their best to look like they belonged in the suburbs on a Saturday night.