Run: 2026-07-07-01KWZ45EJ3X6S38ET4AYFN3NJ4

Molly squinted through the binoculars, the cheap plastic digging into the bridge of her nose. Across the street, a sea of screaming six-year-olds in party hats swarmed a red-and-yellow bouncy castle. “Okay, Bill. Talk to me. What’s the ingress point?” Bill, wedged between a spare tire and a bag of party favors they’d lifted from a minivan last week, tapped a greasy blueprint of the backyard. “The back fence. It’s a vinyl privacy slat. Three-point-five feet, no razor wire. But the real problem is the clown.” Molly lowered the binoculars. “The clown?” “The guy with the red nose,” Bill said, pointing a sausage-like finger. “He’s not just a face-painter. He’s a retired mall cop named Gary. I read his bio on the party-planning website. He does balloon-animal security. He has eyes.” “You’re afraid of a balloon artist?” Molly’s voice dripped with disdain. “We’ve knocked over a silent auction for a golf resort, Bill. We lifted the giant check from a charity fun-run. We are professionals.” “He does swans, Molly. Swans are territorial.” “Focus,” she snapped. “Presents: the payload is under a white canopy table, nine o’clock from the primary bounce structure. What’s your extraction route?” Bill traced a path on the blueprint. “I go in through the petunias. I’ll use a distraction—I rigged a remote-control fire truck with a speaker that plays the Ice Cream Truck jingle. While all the kids chase a freezie that doesn’t exist, I’ll grab the haul.” “Solid,” Molly admitted. “But the target is the iPad and the lava lamp from the birthday girl’s grandmother.” “I know my mark, Molly. Don’t patronize me.” A high-pitched shriek erupted from the party. The clown, Gary, was doing a magic trick that involved a disappearing handkerchief, but a small boy had just pulled a string on a piñata and the room exploded into a frenzy of candy. Bill shuddered. “Kids are chaos. It’s worse than a casino.” “Chaos is our friend,” Molly said, handing him a pair of gardening gloves. “We move on my signal. The first kid to get a face full of frosting, we go. And Bill?” “Yeah?” “Don’t make eye contact with the clown. He’ll try to sell you a balloon poodle.” Mollly opened the van door. The party music swelled—a tinny version of “Baby Shark.” “Time to make a withdrawal.”