Same as the Old Boss: Black Ocean: Mirth & Mayhem, #14

By J.S. Morin

Stuck around New Singapore when I saw it was time for a change.

 

Don Rucker has seen what Mordecai The Brown is capable of. Now the second in command of his father's syndicate wants Mort's help with an even bigger job: killing Theo Rucker.

 

Initially roped in simply as Mort's handler, Chuck's people skills become invaluable in rooting out loyalists to the old regime when even Don's trusted lieutenants are too close to be objective. Mort trims the ranks quietly, become a boogeyman to any syndicate guys not in on the plot. When the coup takes place, they hope for a quick decisive action that swiftly puts Don on the throne.

 

Of course, none of it goes according to plan, not even the part where Don's only daughter, Tania, is holed up with bodyguards in an undisclosed safehouse. Lucky for her, a young up-and-comer in the organization was also part of her protection detail: Brad Ramsey. When a mole blows their cover, the pair head on the run together, hoping to evade Rucker minions on all sides of the family until they're sure she's safe.

 

Same as the Old Boss is the fourteenth mission of Black Ocean: Mirth & Mayhem. It follows a mismatched duo of itinerant comedian and outlaw wizard as they roam the galaxy trying to eke out a living and stay ahead of the consequences of their actions. Black Ocean: Mirth & Mayhem looks back at an earlier era in the Black Ocean universe, and returning readers will get to see how some of their favorite characters came to be. Fans of morally gray heroes and slick talking conmen will love this series.

 

Grab your copy before someone else does.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Magical Scrivener Press
• Release date: Nov 7, 2023
• ISBN: 9781643558110

J.S. Morin

I am a creator of worlds and a destroyer of words. As a fantasy writer, my works range from traditional epics to futuristic fantasy with starships. I have worked as an unpaid Little League pitcher, a cashier, a student library aide, a factory grunt, a cubicle drone, and an engineer--there is some overlap in the last two. Through it all, though, I was always a storyteller. Eventually I started writing books based on the stray stories in my head, and people kept telling me to write more of them. Now, that's all I do for a living. I enjoy strategy, worldbuilding, and the fantasy author's privilege to make up words. I am a gamer, a joker, and a thinker of sideways thoughts. But I don't dance, can't sing, and my best artistic efforts fall short of your average notebook doodle. When you read my books, you are seeing me at my best. My ultimate goal is to be both clever and right at the same time. I have it on good authority that I have yet to achieve it. Visit me at jsmorin.com

Book preview

SAME AS THE OLD BOSS

MISSION 14

BLACK OCEAN: MIRTH & MAYHEM

J.S. MORIN

Copyright © 2023 J.S. Morin

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Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.

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J.S. Morin — First Edition

SAME AS THE OLD BOSS

MISSION 14

For a core world that saw Earth on a clear night, nights on Mars could get awfully dark. Civilization had its limits, especially when you lived on the edge of society by choice. Zach Durocher had left his hover parked behind a warehouse in the starport district of New Montreal. A sixth sense had told him not to get inside. In daylight hours, he’d have a couple of his buddies scan it to be sure. Just, in the back of his mind, he couldn’t see powering it up and it not exploding.

Too many guys had gone of late. Gone where? Who knew? It hadn’t been a series of hovers rigged to explode, but that didn’t settle the nagging dread in Zach’s belly.

Guys were just disappearing.

No rhyme or reason.

He was old enough. He remembered the war between the Ruckers and the Diamond Brothers Syndicate. His old man had been around for the time Angelo tried to oust Theo. Those were huge, bloody battles filled with knifings, stranglings, blasters, mysterious accidents, and, yeah, more than a couple of hovers rigged to blow as soon as the engines powered up.

But this? This time was different.

Zach cut through an alley on foot, trying not to look like prey. Inside his jacket, he gripped the handle of his blaster, finger resting on the outside of the trigger guard. If someone had a mind to make him disappear, he wasn’t going down without a fight.

A scuff of shoes behind him sent Zach into a sprint. Heart pounding, he raced to put distance between him and whoever was back there. He’d take the ribbing if it was one of his own crew or just a random stim-head pissing behind the waste reclaim outlets. A P-tech padlock on a side door melted away at the single blaster bolt.

Zach put his shoulder to the door, bounced off, then realized it pulled outward. Yanking it open, he darted inside and slammed the door behind him.

He muffled his own ragged breath with a hand, shut his eyes, and listened for sounds of pursuit.

What a disgrace. His old man would have disowned him, seeing him like this. Cowering. Afraid of his own hover. Practically pissing himself over a footstep that maybe he’d heard, maybe he’d imagined.

That paranoia seemed far less unjustified when a man stepped through the wall beside him. Not through any door, window, or gap in old masonry, but right through a solid damned wall.

Zach had his blaster out in an instant, but the guy’s casual demeanor kept him from squeezing the trigger before checking. Who the fuck are you?

The wall-passer dressed in a shabby hooded sweatshirt and looked like he shaved with hedge trimmers. Tall and lanky, he slouched as he sauntered in front of Zach’s blaster without a care in the galaxy. Only the keen look in the guy’s eyes, plain even in the shit lighting from warehouse fluorescents, told him that this was anything more than a vagabond with a flair for showmanship.

Consider this a loyalty test, the mystery man told him.

What kind of loyalty test came from an utter stranger? Zach had never set eyes on this guy in his life. But that didn’t mean it wasn’t a disguise. After all, walking through a wall had to be a lot trickier than altering a face. I’m behind Theo a hundred fifty percent. If that’s what’s happening here, I’m a fucking rock. Same as my old man.

The newcomer nodded. Good. That’s what I needed to hear.

Zach relaxed, lowering his blaster but not putting it away. Christ. You scared the shit out of me. What’s going on, anyway?

Step away from the wall, if you don’t mind? the stranger ordered mildly, beckoning with his fingers.

Zach complied, unsure why the guy needed him to move. But, again, he was clearly dealing with a wizard, so he played along with whatever goofy shit was happening here.

Much better. Thanks. As for what’s going on. You just happen to be hitched tight to the wrong horse.

Before Zach could lift his weapon to defend himself, he looked the wizard in the eye.

After a long night’s work, sometimes a cold beer was all the reward a man needed. Chuck Ramsey, however, would have preferred getting a chance to sleep with his wife.

Back in New Singapore, Becky was living the high life—literally instead of figuratively—in a tower apartment paid for by Rucker money funneled through Brad. That much they let him know. She was safe. Michelle and Rhiannon were thriving in school. All Chuck had to do to keep things that way was to help Don Rucker win this war of his, ideally before the first shot was fired in return.

This was their third consecutive night in the Station Street safehouse. Bernadette had been planetside for weeks now since Bart’s top people had been added to the plot. She’d been erasing their digital footprints behind them while Pink-Eye and Willie the Nail handled their physical security. Any sign of suspicious activity, and they moved to the next safehouse in the rotation. Other teams kept their network of hideouts secure.

Chuck was as much a prisoner as he was a mastermind. Don had designated him as chief judge, an impartial outside arbiter of loyalty and integrity unbounded by the preconceptions, personal debts, and longstanding familiarity that might cloud the biases of his own people.

His entire career as a con man had been about sifting sharks from suckers and siphoning money from the latter. Now, he’d been asked to use those same skills to sort the sharks into categories. To cull, or not to cull; that was the question.

Their meals were mostly takeaway fare. Tonight, on the overnight shift, Willie the Nail was showing off his culinary chops, searing filets on a skillet in the safehouse kitchen.

The door slid open without warning.

Around the room, blasters leapt from holsters.

Mort patted the air with a hand to let everyone know it was just him. You people ought to know by now that anyone worth shooting, your lookouts would spot.

Good hunting? Pink-Eye inquired. He looked up from his array of screens that monitored the approaches to the safehouse, screens that had done nothing to alert him of the wizard’s impending arrival.

Don’t expect to see Zachary Durocher again. At a crook of Mort’s finger, the spare fridge popped open and launched a beer can at him.

Good enough for him, Willie the Nail called out from the kitchen over the sizzle of steak.

A chill ran up Chuck’s spine. People just vanishing. Names he’d picked out of piles of flatpics, police reports, anecdotes. Condemned men he’d never met. Guys who’d just set off Chuck’s little self-preservative instincts that told him, based on any number of factors he could glean, that they wouldn’t help pull when Don threw a noose around Theo’s neck.

The wizard dragged up a chair beside Chuck’s little makeshift workstation in the safehouse living room. How goes the search for the next disappearing act?

Setting aside flat sheets of insta-burn plastic dossiers, Chuck slouched back. Painstaking. We can’t afford to lose good people. And the best ones are the hardest to tell.

Mort patted him on the shoulder and offered the beer he’d summoned. You look like you can use this more than me.

But you’ve been out all night doing actual—

Another beer slapped into Mort’s waiting palm.

Fine. Thanks.

Don’t mention it. And as far as your search goes, I squeezed a name out of Zachary before he went away.

Bernadette perked up, acknowledging Mort’s arrival for the first time. None of his little antics had showed the least harm to the tech, which seemed to be all she cared about. Oh? Who?

Corey Shaw.

Pink-Eye scoffed. C-man? He’s as solid as they come.

Too solid, Mort agreed. Zach was convinced he’d turn on his own crew before betraying Theo.

Bernadette shook her head, not in disbelief but discouragement. Not a good sign. Earl’s house is a fucking mess. Don’s people will fall into line like dominoes, but Earl’s…

Hey, that’s why we’re here, right? Chuck asked of the room at large. He didn’t want internal strife on top of all the external sort they had right now.

Double-check him, Bernadette ordered. He’s a good soldier. Be a shame to clip him on a lone informant’s hunch. Even if Zach was convinced, that doesn’t mean he was right.

Chuck sighed. On it. He cracked open a beer and set to work going back over a file he’d discarded as ‘reliably backing Don’ weeks ago.

He wondered…

If this went on long enough, would all the Ruckers just be dead? Would Chuck just one day walk out of a safehouse free and clear because there wasn’t a damn soul left on either side of this conflict? It felt like this bush was getting trimmed right to the trunk.

Maybe he and Mort could get away scot free if they just… added a few names here and there.

He cast a quick glance at the wizard.

Was Mort doing it already?

The garage wasn’t Brad’s favorite part of this job. In the current environment in the syndicate, it was a necessary evil. Two hovers lay in pieces, guts splayed out neatly over the floor and nearby work benches. Nico had three different scanners he was using to check for sabotage. Kenny and Baggy Ben worked on further disassembling the vehicles, while Double Pete watched for interlopers.

Brad, if you’re not gonna help, mind grabbing some coffees? Kenny asked from the floor atop a repulsor board.

These were Brad’s guys. They ran jobs past him before running things on their own, and they kicked up anything they pulled in. When Brad had something big enough, they were the ones he pulled back first to run with. The minute he started fetching coffee for them, the chain of command would break down.

Right now, Kenny, I’m more worried about someone coming through the skylight and disintegrating us than I am with you needing a cup of coffee. This isn’t a union shop. Take a fucking coffee break if you need one.

Casually dropping in the mention of disintegrations played into a common myth running around the syndicate. Someone, the theory went, had gotten ahold of some military ordinance, and they were using it to make rivals disappear.

The problem, as Brad saw things, was that the Ruckers didn’t have serious competition on Mars these days. Sure, little sibling syndicates popped up here and there, maybe running a neighborhood or a small city. They got to exist until they got in the Ruckers’ way. After that, it was either get absorbed or get dusted.

In this case, the Ruckers thought someone had turned the tables and was dusting their guys—literally.

Pointedly making a pot of coffee, then pouring one for only himself, Brad allowed the anointed mechanics to continue their work.

Frankly, he didn’t know whom to trust out there in the syndicate right now. Tempers were raw. Nerves were ragged.

Freeze right there! Right there! Double Pete shouted, drawing his blaster and aiming it out the open garage door and into the darkness beyond.

Brad had his blaster out without even spilling his coffee. The strip-down crew scrambled for their weapons.

Don’t shoot! a teenage voice squeaked in terror.

Nico stuffed his blaster in the front of his coveralls. Fuck’s sake, Pete. That’s dinner.

A takeaway delivery pilot approached bearing three heavy white plastic bags with the Noodle-O-Rama logo on them, plus a six-pack of beer. Brad recognized the delivery company uniform. There, but for the grace of God, flew him. A few months back, he was the one ferrying meals to gangsters.

Holstering his own weapon, Brad made sure this kid didn’t leave with the wrong idea. He pressed a hardcoin thousand into the kid’s palm once Double Pete accepted their dinner. No hard feelings.

The kid nearly shook his head off, nodding agreement with the sentiment, then ran back to his hoverbike.

That weren’t even a hundred terras worth of food he brung, Kenny complained. You don’t gotta go setting expectations like that.

Funny, Brad commented wryly. Jimmy tips like that.

No. Fuckin’. Way, Kenny shot back.

Nico snickered. He’s bleedin’ it back out of you if he did.

Flow will pick back up, Brad assured them. As if any one of them believed he knew a damn thing about syndicate financial fluctuations. Jimmy might have been taking business classes here and there, but Brad had a spotty public school education that didn’t include a high school diploma.

Maybe. When we’re out earning instead of stripping the whole garage twice a week.

Kenny was exaggerating, but Brad shared the underlying frustration. Look. Whatever’s going on, you guys are my responsibility. Any chaos has winners and losers, and dead guys don’t get to play. I’m setting us up to come out as winners.

Winners with the cleanest fucking fuel clamps on Mars! Nico cheered sarcastically.

While technically they were looking for explosives, compromised aerial attitude controllers, rigged repulsors, and the like, one side effect was a maintenance routine that a starfighter hangar crew could be proud of.

For whatever reason, core world Noodle-O-Rama never tasted as good as out in the colonies. If he had to venture a guess, it was that the food remained the same while the alternatives got better the closer you got to Earth. As the leader of this crew, he had the prerogative to change the dinner menu any time he liked. Instead, he’d opted for a round-robin system where everyone got to pick. Double Pete had the palate of a seven-year-old. Michelle would eat anything, but even she’d grown out of liking Noodle-O-Rama.

Nico