Run: 2026-09-02-01M1H5HMVB7S5M3NYBET5QVQEC

The problem with casing a child's birthday party, Molly had learned, was that the surveillance was humiliating. She sat in the rental car outside the community center, binoculars pressed to her face, watching a clown twist balloons into animals for a mob of six-year-olds. "Report," Bill said through the phone. "There are fourteen gift bags on the table. Sparkly. Possibly containing toys worth actual money." "Parents these days spend a fortune. Little Timmy's getting a gaming console. I checked the registry." "You checked the gift registry for a first grader's party?" "Due diligence, Molly. That's why we're professionals." Molly lowered the binoculars as a woman in a "Birthday Mom" sash approached the table. "She's moving the gifts inside. Smart. But she doesn't know she's dealing with us." "She doesn't even know we exist. That's the point." "She also has a bounce house. Which is new since yesterday." "A bounce house is not a security system." "Bill, it's a twelve-foot inflatable castle with a blower motor running. We go over that wall, we're landing in there. Do you know how loud a bounce house is? Those kids will hear the squeaking." Silence on the line. Then, "I could wear soft shoes." "The shoes aren't the squeaky part, Bill. The house is. The entire house is made of squeak." "Fine. Plan B. We go during cake time. Everyone's hopped up on sugar, watching the kid blow out candles. Classic misdirection." "That's actually not terrible." "Thank you." "I'm as surprised as you are." Molly watched the clown make a balloon dog and hand it to a crying toddler. "Okay. Cake is at three. Gifts open at three-thirty. We have a twenty-minute window to grab fourteen bags and exit through the kitchen." "What's the fence paying for this haul?" "Earl says kids' toys are hot right now. Somebody's buying. He mentioned something about a doll shortage." "A doll shortage. We're stealing from children because of a doll shortage." "Crime doesn't take a moral inventory, Bill." "That's the motto of a bad person." "Our business cards say 'Trophy Retrieval Specialists.' We crossed that bridge years ago." Bill sighed, the long-suffering sigh of a man who had committed many felonies but still had lines. "Fine. But I'm taking the dance floor one too. The kid's got a karaoke machine coming. I checked." "You checked the registry for a first grader." "Due diligence, Molly." She watched the birthday boy trip over his own shoes and face-plant into the cake table. There was no cake table anymore. There was frosting and chaos. "Change of plans," Molly said. "Cake happened early. Moving to entry now." "You're entering a children's party in broad daylight in your disguise? Which is what, exactly?" Molly looked down at herself. Red wig, polka dots, oversized bow tie. "I'm the replacement clown," she said. "Molly, that's not a—" "Mimes and clowns, Bill. Nobody questions a clown. It's the perfect crime." "It's absolutely not the perfect—she's walking in. She's actually walking in. Unbelievable. I'll get the van." Molly pocketed the phone, honked a tiny horn on her lapel, and squeaked toward the door.