Claude Friloux sat with his espresso and pain au chocolat at the counter, newspaper spread out before him.

The Stabilisation Act would pass, eh? Of course it would. The leftists loved the Anarchy, the chance to spook the calves back to Mother France's teat. Rent controls, curfew, the mandated wage. By all means, seize every choice one has!

Claude's parents' properties—which had been his grandparents' properties before, and their grandparents' before that—were bringing roughly a third what they would have in a free market, and cost a minor fortune to secure besides. Likely Claude would be forced to sell the ninety-footer yacht, leaving him to entertain mistresses and German cousins with just the forty-foot weekender.

One might as well hoist bedsheets up a canoe.

Claude picked at his gray-streaked sideburns, nursing his annoyance. Finally he gave it up to nibble the pastry into its chocolate core, then sip, savoring the bitter coffee over the firm confection—that first heavenly demi-melt in his mouth.

The caffeine set his knee twitching, his Rivard LLC badge jangling in his pocket.

Yes, it could not be denied: his lifestyle was headed for the crapper. What the criminals didn't take, the socialists would.

Now the diuretic effects of the coffee set in, and Claude contemplated his daily trip to that literal place. The crapper.

Eight a.m. Right on schedule.

He rolled Le Figaro into a tube and stood. One day, I won't even have to wipe my own ass. The government will do it for me.

Two steps into the restroom, a blow struck Claude between the shoulder blades. He crumpled to the tile.

Quick fingers raced through his pockets for ID and badge. He raised his head, wincing, and through the blurry pain saw a man—attired for business, pressing false sideburns into his temples.

A second man bound Claude's wrists as the first pulled a wig over tousled blond hair and clipped on the stolen badge.

"How do I look?" the first said.

The second pushed his lower lip forward. "'Bout right, Mr. Friloux."

In the man's dialect, some American underclass variety, Claude's surname sounded like the croaking of a toad.