Run: 2026-09-23-01M37QAMM5JDBD73PH16RHHB7D

The planning board was a stroke of genius, Molly thought, if you considered genius to be a posterboard covered in macaroni and glitter with the words OPERATION CANDY GRAB written across the top in what appeared to be ketchup. "Okay," Bill said, tapping the board with a wooden spoon. "Phase one. We enter through the front gate." "There is no front gate, Bill. It's a backyard. In the suburbs. There's a hedge." "Fine. Phase one, we breach the hedge." "You're going to breach a hedge." "Hedges have been breached before, Molly. It's a documented fact." Molly rubbed her temples. Three years of pulling off museum jobs, casino jobs, one extremely memorable aquarium job involving a sedated octopus, and now here she was, crouched over a posterboard decorated like a kindergartner's homework assignment, because Bill had heard that the Henderson kid's party featured a present pile worth two grand. "Disguises," she said, moving on. "I've got the clown costume." Bill shook his head gravely. "Clowns are done. Nobody trusts a clown anymore. We go as balloon artists." "What's the difference?" "Balloon artists are whimsical. Clowns are a threat. It's basic psychology." Molly stared at him. Bill had once talked his way out of a vault in Monaco wearing a bathrobe. He was not a stupid man. And yet. "The dog," she said. "The Hendersons have a golden retriever named Biscuit." "I've prepared for Biscuit." Bill produced a Tupperware container from under the table with tremendous ceremony. Inside were forty-seven strips of bacon. "We drop these along the east perimeter. Biscuit follows the trail. Dog neutralized." "That's a lot of bacon." "You can't over-prepare for a dog, Molly. That's how the Lisbon job fell apart." "The Lisbon job fell apart because you got stuck in a ventilation shaft." "Because the shaft was inadequately greased. Which brings me to phase four." He unrolled a diagram of what appeared to be a stick figure rappelling down from a ceiling. "The descent." "Bill. It's a backyard. The presents are on a folding table. Next to the ice cream cake. You can just walk up to the table." He looked at her with genuine pity. "That's exactly what an amateur would do. You know what happens when you 'just walk up to the table'? A six-year-old makes eye contact. And then what?" "Then what," Molly repeated flatly. "Then you're locked in a social contract with a child, Molly. You have to answer their questions. Why are you taking the presents? Are you the present fairy? Why does the present fairy have a goatee? It's a nightmare. I've seen grown men crumble." Molly sat down slowly. "The piñata," she said. "At two o'clock, every kid at that party is going to swarm the piñata. That's our window." Bill nodded, impressed despite himself. "The piñata. Classic diversion. See, this is why we're partners." "We're partners," Molly said, "because you owe me eleven thousand dollars from Lisbon." "Details." He capped a glitter pen. "Now. About the escape vehicle. I was thinking tricycle." Molly looked at the ceiling for a long moment and wondered, not for the first time, whether the presents were worth it. They were worth it. They were a limited edition everything. But still. "A tricycle," she said. "A tricycle," Bill confirmed, "is the last vehicle anyone suspects."