Run: 2026-07-25-01KYCR9A8DHANYVS0Z28C8CYWS

The blueprints were drawn on the back of a pizza box, which Molly considered a step up from their last job, planned entirely on a napkin that Bill later used to blow his nose. "Right," she said, tapping the greasy cardboard with a pen. "Fourteen hundred hours. Bouncy castle goes up here, by the hedge. Cake table's here. And the presents—" she circled a smear of tomato sauce, "—stack up on the patio, under the gazebo." Bill leaned in, chewing the last crust. "How many presents we talking?" "It's Tarquin Bletchley-Frome's seventh birthday. His father owns three car dealerships and a resentment toward his own childhood. There will be presents, Bill. There will be an *avalanche* of presents." "And the security?" "Twenty-two children under the age of eight, one clown, and a woman named Fiona who has been drinking prosecco since eleven." Bill sat back, deeply satisfied. "So no security." "I didn't say that." Molly's pen hovered. "There's a magician. Marvo the Magnificent. He does the two till two-forty slot." "So?" "So he's ex-Special Forces." Bill choked on his crust. "He's *what*?" "Turned to close-up magic after a difficult tour. Very sad story, actually, I read about it in the parish newsletter. Point is, we go in at two-fifteen, when he's mid-routine and both his hands are inside a top hat." "Why don't we just wait till he's gone?" "Because at two-forty they open the presents." Molly said it slowly, the way you'd explain gravity to a pigeon. "Once they're open, they're not presents anymore, Bill. They're just *stuff*. Stuff belonging to a child. That's theft." "And this isn't?" "This is *interception*." Bill considered this and found the logic airtight, which was how most of their convictions had begun. He pulled a paper bag from his jacket and produced two red foam noses. "Costumes," he announced. "I got us clown noses." "There's already a clown." "There can be two clowns." "There cannot be two clowns, Bill, that's how you get a *situation*. Children can count." Molly pinched the bridge of her nose. "We go as caterers. White shirts, black trousers, big flat trays. Nobody looks at a caterer. Nobody's ever looked at a caterer in the history of parties." "I look at caterers." "You look at sausage rolls, which happen to be *near* caterers." Bill turned the nose over in his fingers, wounded. "Fiver each, these." "Keep the receipt." She stabbed the pizza box again. "Present pile onto the trays, trays into the wheelie bin, wheelie bin down the side alley to the van. Ninety seconds, in and out, and we're eating chips in Margate by four." "And if someone stops us?" "Then you smile, you say 'gluten-free option,' and you keep walking. Nobody argues with gluten." Bill nodded slowly, then brightened. "Can I still wear the nose in the van?" Molly looked at him for a long moment. Eleven years of partnership sat between them like a sleeping dog. "In the van," she said, "you may wear the nose."