Run: 2026-04-24-01KPZV694Y14VTCGB79SYS60WZ

Molly spread the blueprints across the sticky diner table, pinning the corners with a ketchup bottle, a saltshaker, and two half-eaten pancakes. Bill leaned in, squinting through his reading glasses, which were held together with a paperclip and considerable optimism. "Okay," Molly said, tapping the paper. "The target is a bounce house. Specifically, the bounce house at 14 Maplewood Drive, this Saturday, at precisely two o'clock in the afternoon." Bill blinked. "You realize this is a seven-year-old's birthday party." "I realize that." "And you realize we're grown adults." "Bill. Focus." He sighed and peered at the diagram, which Molly had meticulously labeled in colored pencil. There was a gift table marked in red, a piñata marked in yellow, and a suspicious cluster of X's near the snack zone. "What are the X's?" "Clowns." "Clowns?" "Two of them. Professionally hired. We have to assume they're armed." "With what, Molly? Balloon swords?" "I've seen what a balloon animal can do in the wrong hands." Bill rubbed his temples. He had robbed a jewelry store in Zurich. He had once out-maneuvered Interpol in a gondola. And now he was being briefed on clown neutralization by a woman eating a pancake with her fingers. "Fine," he said. "Walk me through it." Molly grinned and produced a second sheet. "Two o'clock, the parents gather the kids for musical chairs. That's our window. The gift table will be unattended for approximately four minutes. You enter through the side gate dressed as Uncle Greg." "Who's Uncle Greg?" "Doesn't matter. Every family has an Uncle Greg. Nobody ever questions Uncle Greg. He just shows up, eats shrimp, and leaves." "I don't look like an Uncle Greg." "You absolutely look like an Uncle Greg." Bill decided not to fight this one. "Meanwhile," Molly continued, "I'll be on the roof of the garage with the duffel bag. You toss the presents up to me, one by one, and I load the getaway wagon." "The getaway wagon." "It's a Radio Flyer. I painted it matte black." "Of course you did." "Stealth, Bill. Stealth is everything." He stared at her. "What's the score here, Molly? What are we actually looking at? A Nintendo? Some Legos? A gift card to Build-A-Bear?" Molly leaned forward, her eyes gleaming with the specific intensity of a woman who had made several poor life choices and intended to make one more. "The birthday boy's grandfather," she whispered, "is Reginald Worthington the Third." Bill straightened. "The Worthington?" "The very one. And word on the street is that grandpa's gift is wrapped in silver paper with a blue bow. Inside? A vintage Mickey Mantle rookie card. Mint condition. Six figures, easy." Bill was quiet for a long moment. Then he reached for his coffee, took a slow, thoughtful sip, and set the mug down with the gentle finality of a man abandoning his last shred of dignity. "Alright," he said. "I'll be Uncle Greg." Molly beamed. "I'll bring the wagon."