Run: 2026-09-02-01M1GWZ39FTQN8NCBYMEMCGBVT

The safe house was the back room of Suds Your Duds, a laundromat that had never once been audited, and every wall was papered with surveillance photos of the Maplewood Community Center. Molly had spent three weeks on this job—photographing parking lots, charting nap schedules, identifying the birthday boy, one Tyler Henderson, soon to be seven. She weighted the blueprint down with coffee mugs and tapped the circle in red marker. "The gift table. East wing, between the bouncy castle and the punch bowl. Forty packages, unguarded." Bill leaned in, toothpick migrating from one corner of his mouth to the other. Twenty years in the business had taught him that when Molly circled something in red marker, someone, somewhere, was about to have a very bad day. Usually it was a bank. Today the red circle contained forty wrapped presents and a cardboard cutout of a cartoon dinosaur, and Bill was beginning to suspect the bad day would be his. "What kind of fools leave presents unguarded?" "Children's party fools. We hit Saturday. Three o'clock, during the piñata." "They keep their valuables somewhere toddlers whack with sticks?" "The piñata is a decoy—cheap candy. The real goods sit on the table with the curly bows. Every adult will be filming the piñata on their phones. Ninety seconds, Bill. That's our window." Bill straightened up and paced the length of the room, which he did when a plan was either brilliant or insane. With Molly it was historically both. The last time she'd worn this particular expression, they'd ended up on the news dressed as raccoon mascots at the balloon festival, an incident neither of them discussed, and the word unfortunate did a lot of heavy lifting whenever it came up. "Guards?" "One grandmother. She's guarding the cake. Different jurisdictions." "Exit?" "Bouncy castle. It backs against the east fence. Socks only—no prints." Bill stopped pacing. He stared at the surveillance photo of the castle, a colossal inflatable velociraptor with a smug expression, its tail flicking toward the east fence like it had been installed by fate itself. He felt something stir in his chest, something he hadn't felt since the armored car in Reno, and it took him a moment to identify it as professional respect. "Twenty years, Molly. Banks, museums, that armored car. And now sock-sliding down an inflatable dinosaur." "Velociraptor." "There's nothing classy about a heist with a juice station." "It's a supply point. Stay hydrated." Bill removed the toothpick and set it on the table like a man laying down his sword. Then he offered her his hand. "In and out in ninety seconds?" "Give or take a round of musical chairs." Molly shook it. Her handshake could crack walnuts, a skill that had come in handy at the Brussels job and in at least one divorce. Somewhere across town, a boy named Tyler was about to have the most memorable seventh birthday of his young life, though not for the reasons his parents intended.