Run: 2026-09-02-01M1GVCFMBS3W07BKCBX43HMBW

Molly crouched behind the hydrangeas, studying the target through binoculars she'd bought for a bank job in 2019. The perimeter was worse than anything in her career: a bouncy castle blocked the east approach, a suspiciously vigilant clown patrolled the snack table, and seventeen six-year-olds swarmed the lawn like tiny, sticky alarms. Bill slid down beside her, dressed head-to-toe in black despite the July heat. Sweat pooled in his ski mask. "The clown's the problem," he whispered. "Clowns are always the problem." They'd spent three weeks on this. Blueprints of the house, courtesy of a contractor who owed Molly a favor. A schedule, pinched from the mother's fridge during the open house. They knew the presents would be piled on the gift table at exactly 2:15, between musical statues and the cake. A twelve-minute window. Molly had disabled harder security systems than a bubble machine. Bill had rappelled into actual vaults. And yet here they were, defeated by a piñata placement they hadn't anticipated, and a child—sharp-eyed little Emma—who kept waving at them from the window. Bill wiped his forehead. "Kids wave back, right?" "Retreat now," Molly said. "We regroup at the van." Behind them, Emma waved harder.