Run: 2026-09-02-01M1GWTMWR39FBT2MS08BS98Y4

Molly unrolled the blueprint across the kitchen table of their safe house, pinning the corners with a bag of gummy bears, a tire iron, and what Bill was fairly sure was somebody's stolen Oscar. "Saturday. Eleven a.m. The Henderson girl turns seven." Bill squinted at it. "This is a coloring page." "It's recon. The mother posted the floor plan on her party blog." "The floor plan of a bounce house?" "Obstacle one." Molly tapped the paper twice. "We go in as caterers." "We don't cater." "We learn by Friday." Bill stared at her like a man being asked to jump off a bridge. "It's a children's party, Molly. What's the take? Forty bucks in a card from Grandma?" "Eighteen presents. I did the registry math. There's a gaming console in there. A gaming console, Bill." "That console is going to a child." "It's going to an insurance claim. Besides, we've done worse." "We've done bigger. We've never done sadder." Molly traced a route with her finger, lips moving, a general planning D-Day. "Entry through the side gate. The clown covers us." "The clown covers us?" "I pay him two hundred to make balloon animals by the gift table. He's a distraction asset." "He's a clown, Molly. He is not an asset. And what about the piñata?" "What about it?" "You can't run a heist with a piñata. When that thing breaks, forty children enter a fugue state. We will be the casualties." "Which is why the piñata is our exit cover. When it bursts, we move." "Through the sugar-crazed mob." "Through the sugar-crazed mob. Grab, bag, gone. Ninety seconds." Bill said nothing, which Molly took as agreement and which was, in fact, despair. He rubbed his face with both hands. "The parents. They guard presents like dragons." "Parents," Molly said, "are drinking wine in the kitchen by eleven fifteen. It's in the blog." He stared at her. "You read a mommy blog for three weeks for this?" "I embedded. I know the cake flavors. I know the lollipop order. I've commented on seventeen photos of the dog." "The dog?" "Sprinkles. Neutral party. Loves me." Bill looked down at the coloring page, at the stick-figure guests, at the sun wearing sunglasses. "And the birthday girl?" "Bounce house. Twenty minutes minimum. It has a slide." "All it takes is one kid yelling 'where are my presents' and that backyard becomes a crime scene." "So we leave the console." "We're leaving the console?" "We take seventeen presents and leave the console. Compartmentalize. It's called professionalism." "That's called ruining a birthday and denying her the one thing she wanted." "Eighty percent of a birthday is still a birthday, Bill." He was quiet for a long moment. Somewhere below them, a car alarm wailed and gave up. "The clown. What's the clown's name?" "Twinkles." Bill exhaled through his teeth. "Fine. But I'm not wearing the catering apron." "It has ruffles." "I hate you." "Ruffles, Bill." Molly rolled up the blueprint with the tenderness of a soldier folding a flag. "We're professionals."