Free India Black in the City of Light by Carol K. Carr

I’d set off a stick of dynamite. The pepperbox flew out of my hand. The blast blew me backward and I fell over in the water. It took a moment for things to sink in. Then I realized that the weapon’s hammer had ignited not only the charge for the bullet I had intended to fire, but also all the others in the gun. It had been a chain-fire of all six bullets simultaneously, and I was lucky the pepperbox hadn’t recoiled back into my face. That damned gun was a nuisance, but I expect the Russians had found it a worse one. All those bullets headeddownrange would cut quite a swathe through that narrow tunnel.
    I scrabbled for purchase on the slick floor and dragged myself upright. I heard an almighty splash and balled my hands into fists. If any Russians were still alive after that volley, I was going to get in a few solid punches.
    “India! Are you alright?” French pushed his way to my side. “Good God, I thought you’d bring this place down around us.”
    “It was a chain-fire. Do you think I hit those blokes?”
    I had an answer almost immediately, but not from French. A heavy object slammed into my thighs, nearly toppling me. It wafted on the current and slid past me, until it was sucked into the whirlpool above the drain.
    “I got at least one,” I said.
    “You may have killed them all,” said French. “I’d hate to have been on the receiving end of that blast.”
    We waded forward cautiously, careful to slide through the water without a sound. A moment later and French uttered an exclamation of satisfaction. “Here’s another,” he said. He dragged the fellow up by the collar. “I was hoping it was Harkwright, but I think this is one of the Russians.”
    “Harkwright may be floating in the Seine by now.”
    “I certainly hope so,” French said grimly, “With a bloody bullet in his chest.”
    We pressed on, moving slowly. If the remaining Russians or Harkwright had escaped my fusillade, they’d retreated, or we passed them in the dark as they cowered. We’d covered a good distance when French pointed a finger upward.
    “Look.”
    A rectangle of light shone up ahead. It was the opening through which we’d crawled. We had been down there in that fetid swamp long enough for daylight to come. We clambered out and staggered to the street. The streets were still buzzing with activity. French seized my hand and we slunk away.
    We were a disreputable looking pair, and of course we stank like blazes. French stalked along, swearing loudly under his breath.
    “What the deuce are you complaining about?” I asked. The longer he cursed and stomped through the avenues of Paris, the longer it would be before I sank into a hot bath.
    “What a cockup,” he said. “Dunstan dead, Cutliffe gone and who the hell knows where Harkwright has gotten to? I’ll have a hard time explaining this to the prime minister. Not to mention that I’ll have to tell him that you came along for the ride, against his strict instructions. I’ll be lucky if he doesn’t send me back to my regiment.”
    “Don’t be ridiculous. You said yourself that Cutliffe was small change. He’s no great loss. And if you alert the French authorities, they’re very likely to find him and pick him up. As for Harkwright, you couldn’t possibly have known the old boy was going to change sides. Maybe the lads back in London should have done a more thorough job of vetting the bloke. Besides, we know of at least two dead Russians, and you and I will live to fight another day. All in all, I think it’s a good piece of work. Now quit moping. I need a new dress. And a bath. Probably more than one. And did I mention perfume? I definitely need some perfume.”
    And rather surprisingly, French was only too happy to oblige me by purchasing a honking great bottle of one of Guerlain’s signature scents. I suppose he felt grateful that I had been along to pull his chestnuts from the fire. Or perhaps it was traveling downwind of me on the way to the nearest