Run: 2026-09-02-01M1H9GMGVA5GFVDC6MGZ6PZ4X

Molly tugged Bill's ear until his nose crinkled against the fronds of the oversized potted fern. Stop breathing so loud, Bill. You sound like a bellows fighting a lawnmower inside a cathedral. I'm hyperventilating because this is insane. A kids' party? Molly, last week it was the diamond vault in Zurich. We had thermal goggles. We had explosives shaped like fruitcakes. Now we have glitter in our hair and I think I stepped in something sticky that might be glue or spilled juice. Zurich had laser grids synced to motion detectors. This has Gary from accounting wearing a clown nose and a tuxedo made of duct tape. And I've reviewed his security protocols. He leaves the front door unlocked because he trusts everyone to respect his homemade cookie policy. That's the easiest lock in the hemisphere. Your logic is fundamentally flawed. Kids are unpredictable variables. They scream without warning. They touch things they shouldn't. What if someone wants a present? What if a toddler grabs an arm and demands affection? Not our problem. Our moral compass is currently parked in a dumpster two blocks away. Our problem is the loot. The pile under the tree contains a vintage console, a jet ski voucher, and enough electronics to buy a small island. Did you bring the sacks? Two heavy-duty trash bags, a laundry basket, and my gym duffel which I hope holds up. Why are we using trash bags? Psychological warfare. Presents look suspicious when they aren't stuffed in garbage. Besides, trash bags tear easily, which makes escape faster. Also, they match my shoes. Call it fashion statement. Also, trash bags are quiet. Silk sheets would rustle. We are not rustling our way to freedom. Fine. But if I get stuck, I'm blaming your footwear choices. Understood. Now focus. Theme check? Dino-mite Discovery. Everything is dinosaurs. Great. Which means lots of plush toys. Plush toys are bulky. We'll need to compress. Vacuum seals in the duffel? I packed the vacuum sealer, yes. But do you really think I can fit a ten-foot T-Rex plush into a garment bag? Cut the head off. Molly! Steal first, ask questions later. Verify the gift tags. We don't want any surprise returns. If a box says For Mom, we leave it. We are targeted thieves, not vandals. Roger that. Tag scan protocol engaged. I'm mentally cataloging every box based on font size and ribbon thickness. Big bow equals big ticket. Correct. Avoid the bike boxes. Too bulky. Unless you see the Schwinn deluxe model. Those fetch three hundred on eBay. Leave the gift cards. Too much paper trail. Cash equivalent? Sure. Physical gifts? Priority alpha. Remember, speed is everything. Once the music stops, the spell breaks. Adults wake up. You'll be dodging angry toddlers wielding plastic swords. Plastic swords? That's new intel. It's called situational awareness. Now brace yourself. The hostess is laughing. Laughter precedes cake cutting. This is pre-bake phase. Get the vacuums ready. Prime the bags. And wipe that smudge off your spectacles; you look like a confused accountant who wandered into a jungle gym. I am a confused accountant who wandered into a jungle gym. That is literally my Tuesday night. Ready on your mark. Molly checked her watch, then glanced toward the center of the room where the hostess was raising a knife over a sheet cake. Then concentrate. Thirty seconds. Leo is wobbling. The windup is starting. Is the balloon arch really rigged? It's not rigged. It's acoustically sensitive. Step on the wrong frequency balloon and the sprinklers trigger. It's a cheap setup run by a guy who hates joy. Amateur hour. But we don't step on balloons. We glide. Like shadows. Or bad dancers. So we wait for the cake? Exactly. Cake time is chaos. Everyone is eating sugar and losing fine motor skills. Parents become zombies. That's our window. Twenty minutes max. After the presents are opened, the room clears for bathroom breaks and cleanup. We strike while the lighting is dim and the parents are drunk on eggnog. What about the birthday boy? Leo? Isn't that a target risk? Leo's the asset. Watch him. He's holding the sparkler wand. Sparklers mean fire hazard means adults panic means focus shifts away from the pile under the tree. When Leo sneezes, we sweep. That's relying too heavily on pediatric asthma for operational success. It's reliable! Look, there he goes. Age seven. Demeanor: chaotic neutral. Pupils dilated. Snot imminent. Perfect storm. Molly, the host is looking this way. Freeze. Assume role. We're the entertainment. We're dressed as tax auditors! This is worse than jail. Exactly! Nobody suspects the tax auditors. Lean in, look stern, and hold the clipboard. Act like you're about to confiscate their childhood. If anyone asks, we're checking the structural integrity of the piñata. I hate this. I miss the safecracking tools. Where is the torque wrench? The wrench is in the bag next to the napkins. Now shush. Here comes the DJ. Track one. Baby Shark begins. Prepare for auditory assault. My eardrums are already screaming. Hold the line, soldier. In thirty seconds, Leo blows out the candles. In thirty-one seconds, darkness. In thirty-two seconds, we sweep. Don't trip over the piñata. And remember, we only take the premium stuff. The socks go to charity. The single sock from the gift card bin stays where it is. We are professionals, not scavengers. Got it. Premium loot only. I have standards. Mostly because I sold my standards to pay for these boots. The room darkened slightly as the lights dimmed for the song. Molly grabbed Bill's wrist, her grip iron-tight beneath the sleeves of her grey blazer. Thirty seconds. The candle height is indicating... yes, six candles. Seven seconds. Ten seconds. Nine. Eight... Seven. Six. Five... Four... The first notes of an upbeat pop track drowned out the ambient chatter. Bill adjusted his clip-on tie, sweat beading on his forehead. Three... Two. One. Go.