Run: 2026-06-01-01KT1J0ZKTGPYAVE2NB18H2FAB

Molly crouched behind the rosebushes, binoculars raised, her frizzy hair tangled with twigs. Bill lay flat on his stomach beside her, wearing a safari hat two sizes too small. "I can see the cake," Bill whispered, his voice trembling with reverence. "It's three tiers. Chocolate." "Focus, Bill." Molly elbowed him gently in the ribs. "This is a reconnaissance mission, not a wine tasting." "Right, right. Sorry." Bill licked his lips and dragged his eyes away from the dessert table. "How many parents?" Molly adjusted the focus. "Three. One dad looking at his phone, one mom holding a baby, and one dad arguing with a clown." "A clown?" "Inflatable. I think it's a prop." Bill scribbled notes furiously in a tiny leather notebook. "Entrances?" "Front door is suicide. Side gate has a chihuahua." Molly paused. "A very small but very loud chihuahua." "Flanks?" "The bouncy castle is blocking the east side, but there's a gap behind the piñata station." Bill nodded, his expression grave, as though they were planning to infiltrate a vault rather than a six-year-old's birthday party. "What's the security situation inside?" "A bubble machine. Possibly two." They sat in silence for a moment, contemplating the gravity of the situation. "The presents are on a table near the gift bags," Molly said finally. "Wrapped in shiny paper. Lots of gold ribbons." "Do we know the haul?" "Looks like at least thirty boxes. Maybe a bike. Definitely something with batteries." Bill closed his eyes, calculating. "Distribution?" "Obviously we fence the bike through Reggie. Action figures go to collectors. Anything educational, we donate to the library for the tax write-off. Candy we split fifty-fifty." "And the LEGO?" Molly stared at him. "Bill. We don't break apart the LEGO. That's a war crime." "Agreed. Agreed. Sorry." A child screamed somewhere in the distance, followed by applause and a burst of bubbles. Molly flinched. "Psychological profile of the children?" she asked. Bill consulted his notes. "Hyper. Sugar-fueled. Mostly between three and seven." "The perfect age." "Exactly. Too young to remember our faces, too distracted by cake to be reliable witnesses." Molly tapped her pen against her teeth. "The clown though. Even an inflatable one makes me nervous." "I can handle the clown." "Bill, last time you 'handled' a mascot costume, you ended up in a fountain." "That was a mascot, not a clown. Different skill set." A woman emerged from the house carrying a tray of sandwiches. Bill's stomach growled audibly. "Free food?" he asked hopefully. "We're not here for the sandwiches, Bill." "Indulge me. What's the operational timeline?" "Tomorrow. Two p.m. sharp. We arrive as caterers." "I don't know how to make a sandwich, Molly." "You don't have to make them. You have to carry them and look busy. I'll handle interior reconnaissance. You watch the chihuahua." Bill frowned. "I'm scared of the chihuahua." "You should be. It's been barking for forty minutes straight." They watched the party continue, the children shrieking with delight, the parents exchanging weary glances, the inflatable clown bobbing gently in the breeze. "One more thing," Molly said. "Yeah?" "We wear disguises." "I was thinking Groucho Marx glasses." "Bill." "Fine. What were you thinking?" "Party hats." They high-fived solemnly, two professionals at the top of their game, preparing for the heist of a lifetime, or at least the lifetime of someone named Timmy, who was about to have a very confusing birthday.