Run: 2026-09-02-01M1GRHAJS4KEXESY1ZQ0S0HEN

The blueprint was a crayon drawing. Bill had insisted on professionalism, and this was the result: a wobbly rectangle labeled "BACKYARD," a suspicious blob that was either a bouncy castle or a potato, and an arrow pointing to a table marked "LOOT" in aggressive capitals. Molly leaned against the rusted flank of their getaway van, binoculars pressed to her face, watching number twelve Pembroke Road through a gap in the hedge. The stakeout had lasted three hours. The party was entering its critical phase. "Target is stationary," she murmured. "Bouncy castle inflated. Piñata at the far fence. Six adults, eleven children, one clown." Bill spat a sunflower seed into a paper cup. In his opinion, the clown was the wildcard. Clowns always were. The man's shoes alone constituted a weapons cache. "Present location?" he asked. "Gift table, east side, by the trampoline. Quick in, quick out. We're ghosts." "Ghosts don't wear dinosaur costumes," Bill said, gesturing at the two inflatable T-rex outfits wedged behind the seats. Molly ignored him. The costumes were her masterstroke. Nobody questioned a dinosaur at a children's party. Dinosaurs were, in her professional opinion, the perfect cover — universally beloved, anatomically anonymous, and impossible to describe to police with any confidence. They watched in silence as a small boy attacked the piñata with the fury of a man twice his size. On the fourth miss, the clown flinched. Molly made a note of it. Fear response. Useful. "There's our window," she said. "Cake time. Every eye in that yard goes to the cake. We hit the table during the singing." "And if the clown intervenes?" Bill asked. "The clown," Molly said, "is one bad review from quitting. Have you seen his balloon animals? That's not a dog. That's a crime scene." Bill considered this and found it sound. He turned back to the hedge as a shriek rose from the yard. The piñata had broken. Children swarmed it like it was Black Friday, and one small girl walked away with the entire haul, lollipops fanned out in her arms like poker chips. "Cold-blooded," Bill whispered, awed. "There are lessons in that child." Molly allowed him the moment. Professional admiration was rare in this business. She outlined the rest with military precision. The cake, she estimated, would arrive at sundown. The getaway would be the alley behind the fence, with Bill idling by the compost bins. "The compost bins," Bill repeated, wounded. "I once stole a canoe." "You once capsized a canoe," Molly said. "Different skill set." She pulled on her T-rex head, her voice echoing inside it. "How do I look?" "Extinct." "That's the spirit. Sundown. Cake. Ninety seconds. Compost bins." Bill stared at the second costume, then at the yard, then at the last shreds of his dignity. "Gary would never ask me to do this," he muttered. "Gary's in prison," Molly said. "Also, Gary is a man you invented to feel better about the canoe. Get in the costume, Bill." He got in the costume.