Run: 2026-09-02-01M1GTNKZ6K17BA788A8V0331G

The surveillance van idled across the street from the community center, where a banner reading HAPPY BIRTHDAY CHLOE — 5 TODAY! drooped between two lampposts like it had already given up. Inside, Molly adjusted her binoculars while Bill assembled a sandwich with the concentration of a bomb technician. "Gift table, northeast corner. Thirty-one presents. Unguarded." "That's what they want you to think." Bill leaned over and took the binoculars. "See the guy in the dinosaur costume?" "The one doing the wiggly dance?" "That's no dance. That's a patrol pattern. Museum-quality stuff." Molly snatched the binoculars back. Sure enough, the dinosaur was tracing a lazy figure eight around the bouncy castle, pausing every forty seconds to high-five a child. Between high-fives, he kept one glittery eye on the gift table. "It's a five-year-old's party, Bill. Security is a man in polyester and a cake." "The cake worries me. Sugar-rushed kindergartners bite." She sighed and unfolded the blueprint she'd drawn on a Denny's placemat. It showed the community center, several arrows, and one balloon labeled BALLOONS. "Here's the plan. I'm the magician's assistant—" "We have a magician?" "We do now. You're the magician." "I don't know magic." "You can make a present disappear. That's the whole act." Bill chewed his lip, which for him signaled deep tactical thinking. "What about the clown?" Molly froze. "Clown?" "Three o'clock. Big shoes. Juggling beanbags." Across the lot, a clown in enormous red shoes was juggling, beanbags flying with the calm precision of a career criminal. She lowered the binoculars slowly, the color leaving her face one shade at a time. "I don't do clowns, Bill. You know this." "You did the Jubilee job with a mime." "Mimes are silent professionals. Clowns are chaos agents with horns. My therapist and I agreed: no clowns. Do you want a relapse on your conscience?" Bill glanced at the party, then the gift table, then a squirrel, weighing his options like a man choosing between two families. "Fine. I'll take the clown. You handle the piñata." "The piñata?" "It's the vault. Valuables go in after cake time. Party protocol." "It's full of candy." "Chloe's grandmother hid fifty in one last year. I have sources." Molly stared at him for a long moment. "You have a source inside a five-year-old's party?" "Deborah. Seventy-eight. Holds a grudge over a casserole dish." There was a pause, filled only by the distant sound of children screaming with joy. "You know this is insane, right? Two adults casing a bouncy castle." "You have a blueprint on a Denny's placemat." "That's called professionalism." Outside, the dinosaur paused on his patrol route to accept a juice box from a toddler, and Bill saluted with genuine respect. Molly started the van, keys jingling with grim purpose. "Two o'clock," she said. "Bubble machine rotation. The dinosaur's guard drops. And if the clown honks at me, I'm out." "Understood." "One honk." Bill loaded a pillowcase into his duffel. "Same team as the museum job?" "Same team. Nobody gets hurt, nobody cries." "Not counting the birthday girl." "Not counting the birthday girl."