Run: 2026-04-24-01KQ03P1N7WMRC90VS7P865K84

Molly lowered her binoculars. “You’re telling me we’re casing a bouncy castle?” Bill squinted at the pastel fortress thumping with hyperactive children. “It’s not just a bouncy castle. It’s the perimeter. Three moms on the north patio, one dad by the grill, and a piñata due east loaded with nothing but dental floss and disappointment.” “I still can’t believe we’re hitting a five-year-old.” “Correction: we’re liberating unwrapped assets from a kindergartener whose parents gave him a pony last Christmas. Little Timmy doesn’t deserve three PlayStations and a karaoke machine.” Molly frowned. “What about the dog?” “Yorkshire Terrier. Twelve pounds. Decoy hotdog by the fence line should occupy him through Phase One.” “Which is?” Molly unrolled a crayon-drawn map across the dashboard. “We enter through the side gate at fourteen hundred hours, disguised as the hired princess and her attendant.” “I’m the attendant?” “You’re the frog. I’m Elsa. We blend, we mingle, we distribute balloon animals as cover. By the time they sing Happy Birthday, we’ve palletized the gifts by the egress window.” Bill studied the map. “That’s a juice box stain.” “It’s a tactical annotation.” “And this purple squiggle?” “Security. The nanny’s been binging true crime podcasts. She circulates every four minutes with the suspicious energy of a mall cop.” Bill sighed, rubbing his temples. “Why don’t we just wait until after the party?” “Because after the party, the presents go upstairs. Upstairs has baby gates. Baby gates have mechanisms I respect too much to defeat.” Molly folded the map with military precision. “We move during present-opening chaos. One mom will be filming vertically for Facebook. Another will be crying about her baby growing up too fast. That’s our window.” “What about the cake?” “The candles are our smoke screen. When they blow them out, the backyard lights dim for exactly three seconds. That’s when I bag the big-ticket items: the RC car, the Lego Death Star, and whatever that wrapped surfboard-shaped thing is.” Bill shifted in the passenger seat. “I don’t feel great about stealing from kids.” “We’re not stealing from kids. We’re redistributing from a child who peaked at birth to a black market that actually appreciates premium goods.” Molly checked her watch. “Besides, you owe me after the aquarium job.” “The penguin had it coming.” “The penguin was federally protected, Bill.” Bill pulled a crumpled invitation from his pocket. “Costume’s in the trunk. But I’m telling you now, if any of those sticky-handed children asks me to turn into a prince, I’m using the smoke bombs.” “No smoke bombs. This is a soft extraction. In, out, seventeen minutes. We leave the party favors, we take the Nintendo Switches.” “Fine. But I’m keeping the goodie bag.” “Absolutely not. We’re professionals.” Molly pulled her icy braid from a duffel bag. Bill opened the car door, his green felt costume rustling ominously. “Professionals don’t dress like amphibians, Molly.” “Today we do. Now hop to it, frogman. The piñata awaits, and those presents aren’t going to heist themselves.”