War Child

By Brandon Logan

Inspired by the Metal Gear Solid series: As a War Child, Alex fought with other children as an assassin for a woman known as Mother Miranda doing her bidding. Known for her precise and devastating lethality, she would trick enemies into letting their guard down by acting with the frankness of a young girl, before killing them with the ruthlessne

• Language: English
• Publisher: Logan HQ
• Release date: Oct 21, 2022
• ISBN: 9781087985565

Book preview

Warchild

Copyright © 2022 by Brandon Logan

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

Edited by - Marni Macrae

Art by - Dewa Astana

Formatted by - HMDPUBLISHING

Warchild

Brandon Logan

Prologue

No, no, no! Knubbs mutters to himself as he hastily starts to upload his thumb drive. While the programs are backing up, he makes short work of running everything paper in his office through the shredding machine. The whir of the blades cutting through sheet after sheet fills the air.

Knubbs has been in the military for too long. He knows that just shredding the paper isn’t going to be enough. The upper brass don’t just want to shut down his nano technology, they want to take it for their own gain; and this is a form of device that was built to help veterans and the disabled, not to help in whatever sick little games the government intends to play.

He grabs the trash bin and hauls it over to the little desk on the far side of the room. The office is small, no windows, and the door is locked. Someone is knocking on it. Knubbs grabs the pot of coffee, freshly brewed, off the little desk and dumps the whole thing into the trash can so that the shredded papers are floating in a sluice of dark liquid.

Just to make it extra hard to get them out and readable, he shoves a hand into the bin, ignoring that the hot coffee burns his hand and fingers, and gives the shreds of soggy paper a few good squeezes, pulping them together until it will be utterly impossible for anyone to read.

If there was a window, he would throw it out.

The person on the other side of the door says, Come on, Knubbs. We’ve been working together for how many months? Don’t make this harder than it is.

Harder than it is? Knubbs lets out a bark of laughter. Fuck you, asshole! Not wanting to spring the money for the Nu Metal, that should be a crime! All these people that we could be helping, and you went to the brass over a bit of a spending problem?

It’s not a bit of a spending problem, insists the other man. His name is Bryan Kent, and he serves as Knubb’s direct supervisor. They’re friends. They had been friends—they were as close to being friends as Knubbs has been with anyone in years, and the realization that Bryan went behind his back to talk to the brass about this project… It leaves a burning fire in his chest.

Knubbs kicks over the trash bin and sends it rocketing across the room. The metal bin hits the wall with a clang, and a disgusting slurry of coffee, trash, and soggy paper shreds goes flying in all directions.

Bryan demands, What are you doing in there? and then, Knubbs, you need to open up right now or I’m going to have to call security.

Call then, Knubbs snarls at him. I’m not giving them my research! I’ve spent five years looking into the uses for Nu Metal, and they had no problems with it until I denied approval for military use! It’s not meant for the Goddamn military. I’ve had enough of dealing with the Goddamn military!

You’re overreacting, Bryan insists. The doorknob jiggles again, but the lock’s holding tight for the moment. Everything gets used in the military at some point or another. Isn’t this at least worth the grant?

No! Knubbs snarls. His nanobyte technology can heal muscle, regrow tissue, and communicate with a rare metal that has a limited supply and is very expensive called Nu Metal. The metal has withstood all tests to the most extreme of measures, even enduring heat as hot as the sun. The government keeps saying that they’re shutting him down because of the cost, but Knubbs knows better. They want to use it for their own gain—and the gain of the government is never the gain of the people.

Knubbs hurries back over to his computer. Bryan calls in, I’m going to call security, Knubbs. Try and calm down before I get back and before they get here.

There’s the sound of his footsteps drifting away from the door. The device only has three percent left to go. Knubbs curls over the computer, tapping his fingers against the hardwood of the desk while he waits… two percent… one percent… and it’s done!

Making a pleased sound in the back of his throat, Knubbs pulls out the thumb drive. He reaches down and tucks it in his sock, down beside the protruding jut of his ankle bone so no one can find it even if they search pockets. Then he uploads a virus onto the computer, which hacks into the system and gives a hard crash.

Just to be certain that the government is going to come away with as little of this information as possible, Knubbs shoves the desk top computer backward onto the floor, where it lands with a crash, and then moves to kick down the computer tower at its side. The plastic structure of the computer tower breaks, and Knubbs brings his foot down on it a few more times, destroying as much of the hard drive as possible.

When he’s certain that he’s gotten as much of it trashed as he can, Knubbs turns and flings open the door to his office. Bryan has come back. The door slams into Bryan’s face hard, snapping his nose with a spurt of blood. The man staggers backward, clutching at it and moaning. What the hell are you doing?

Eat shit. Knubbs says. And tell the brass that they can eat it too!

And then he turns and vaults through the halls of the building. It’s an office of sorts, meant just for people like Knubbs, men who had been in the military for so long, their record is just one big black mark, everything stripped from public view but with more to offer than just being boots on the ground.

He throws himself through the hallway, passing the elevators and taking the stairs instead He can finally hear people pursuing him—security, no doubt. That doesn’t slow Knubbs down in the least. He takes the stairs three at a time, practically flying down them. His boots smack against the tile loudly with each step.

There’s no doubt that the government already has some of the information on the program. That’s just how they work. They’re like leeches. But he knows that if they ever want the full picture, they’re going to have to force it out of him. Knubbs has the information scattered and split between almost fourteen different flash drives, and some of it has never been written down and only exists in his head.

Which means they’ll never figure it out.

Knubbs hits the landing and pushes out into the lobby of the building. Men are already gathering to try and stop him, but Knubbs is faster. He skips the front door, grabbing a chair instead and slamming it into one of the side windows. There’s a crash of breaking glass. Knubbs throws himself out the broken lobby window and onto the pavement below, even though it leaves his hands cut and shredded. Blood drips down his palms and onto his wrists, staining the fabric of his long-sleeved dark-blue button up; a company mandated shirt that he’s ruefully worn since being moved out to this damn building.

Knubbs hauls ass into his car and throws it into action, skidding out of the parking lot before he even closes the door properly. He knows that he can’t stay in this. The government’s probably got a trace on the car. Instead, he wrecks it in a nearby ditch off the highway on purpose and then hitchhikes halfway across the state to his little safe house where he’s been storing his information.

As soon as he gets there, Knubbs knows that he’s won. Not everything, of course. But this one little battle has ended in his favor, and Knubbs remains the only person with any set understanding of how the nano technology works. All that everyone else has are just random pieces of a greater puzzle.

They’ll never be able to figure it out without Knubbs there to tell them how to do it.

Chapter

One

It’s been five years since Knubbs took off from the military, stripped the world of his presence, and made a home for himself in a small London brownstone. It’s true what they say—the best way to hide is by doing it in plain sight, and he’s been in plain sight for years.

The only woman that’s found him thus far is a woman named Miranda Strong, who has been doggedly trying to get Knubbs to meet with her for the last six months. He sips at his tea, brewed strong and sweet, as he looks over the most recent attempt at contacting him; instructions on where to be picked up by a helicopter so that she can meet him in person, some place no one can find them.

It’s unnerving but it’s smart.

Knubbs has been shopping around on the black market for a while now, picking up jobs when he feels like doing them, offering his skills when he thinks someone deserves to have access to them. His bet is that this Madame Miranda, as she refers to herself, has heard rumblings about his research on nanobyte technology and wants to purchase it and hire him.

The problem is, Knubbs doesn’t know if he’s going to sell it to her. He spends the whole day thinking about it, and the next morning too. But eventually he decides that he hasn’t gotten any better offers lately—what can it hurt to go out there and see what she wants to offer him?

So, he travels out to where the helicopter is meant to pick him up. The crash of the blades as the airborne vehicles lowers is louder than thunder and whips Knubbs’ short blonde hair about in a frenzy.

A man in a black suit motions him in and Knubbs takes the man’s extended hand and uses it to haul himself into the helicopter. It’s a state-of-the-art vehicle, he can tell; the pinnacle of what money can buy. The man sitting across from him is tall and broad shouldered, black, with short-cropped hair. He nods. Pinkman.

I didn’t ask, Knubbs tells him. How long is the flight?

Three hours, Pinkman responds. Though maybe I shouldn’t be answering your questions, since you want to act like a little shit.

Knubbs settles back in his seat and folds his arms over his chest, confident in even the most stressful of situations. Sorry, pal, you already did. That’s the only question I’m gonna have for you.

Pinkman scowls at him and the two fall into silence, neither of them willing to speak for the remaining duration of the trip; an easy flight with no issues that takes them miles away from any civilization and out into the UK hills.

Rolling green vales stretch out before them, the grass plastering down on the ground in a wave as the helicopter lands. A short, balding man stands outside of a sleek, black Jeep. When Knubbs gets out of the chopper, the man puts a hand behind his head and hurries over, extending the other for a shake. Knubbs?

Knubbs doesn’t take it, just shoves his hands in his pockets. Who else would it be?

The man looks flustered and gestures over to the nearby Jeep. I’m going to take you to meet with Madame Miranda. My name is Steve. If you’ll just come with me?

The two men get into the Jeep. It’s new. Steve is quick to throw it into reverse and haul away from the helicopter. As soon as they’re out of earshot of the thunderous air vehicle, Knubbs asks, Are you actually working with her or do you just drive?

Mostly I just drive, says Steve. But I’ve done a few other odd jobs for her. Pick people up, that sort of thing. I know it must seem odd. Madame Miranda is a strict and peculiar woman but—well, I can’t say much outside of the fact that she pays well.

How much for you to come pick me up?

Ten grand.

Steep prices, Knubbs says with a low whistle. She can afford that output all the time?

Steve nods. Whatever she does, it’s left her a very rich and very successful woman. She’ll pay an awful lot to make sure that the job gets done correctly. I try to always make sure it gets done right.

Knubbs asks, What happens if you fuck it up, huh?

I try to make sure I always get the job done right, Steve says, a second time, More firm in the response. It doesn’t matter. Knubbs already knows that there’s only one chance with this sort of person.

He’s alright with that. He only needs one chance to prove that his technology is worth buying.

Steve takes Knubbs to a large, white-walled hive of a building with many different rooms that attach in off branching halls. The layout looks like it was made to be complex on purpose. Steve stays in the car and gestures for Knubbs to go up the front marble steps on his own, where two armed guards are waiting for him. These two guards don’t say anything, opting to skip out on speaking in favor of just leading him through the halls.

That’s appreciated. Knubbs isn’t the sort of person who likes to stand around and chit chat. He’s the kind of person who likes to get shit done when it needs to be done; and right now, the only thing that needs doing is speaking to this woman.

He’s led to a large room; empty save a sharply-dressed middle-aged woman. Madame Miranda, for it can’t be anyone else but her. She has her dark hair pulled up into a severe bun and a suit jacket over her knee-length black skirt. Her stiletto heels clack against the white tile floor when she crosses it to shake Knubbs’ hand.

There’s a man lying on the floor behind them, so sick that he might as well already be dead, with pale skin and bruising all along his facial features. There’s a wheezing note to all of his breaths, like maybe his lungs have liquid in them.

I have heard a great deal about you, says Madame Miranda. She takes a step back, gesturing with both arms to the building around her. Welcome to Hades.

Is that what you call this place? Knubbs looks around the room, frowning a little. Fancy name for something that looks like a dentist’s office.

I’m sure that, should you end up lending me your services, you’ll come to see otherwise. My buildings hold a vast amount of secrets, and I think many of them might interest you and help you further your research, Madame Miranda says. There’s a long pause, and she tilts her head to the side, asking, Did you bring a sample of your work?

It’s a stupid question. Knubbs barely resists the urge to roll his eyes. He says, Does a pig roll in shit? Yeah, I brought a sample! What kind of professional shows up to an interview with nothing to fucking show for it?

Wryly, Madame Miranda tells him, You would be surprised by the sort of people who have come through my doors recently. She gestures toward the man behind her. I would like to see it in action.

Knubbs cracks open the briefcase that he’d brought with him, pulling one of the needles and syringes out. It’s filled with a pale silver liquid. He tosses it at her. I better be getting paid after this shit works. I don’t care if it’s a fucking sample or not. That shit’s not cheap!

Madame Miranda has better reflexes than Knubbs is expecting, because she easily catches the syringe, though she does let out a heavy and clearly annoyed sounding sigh. Of course. If the sample works, you’ll be paid for both the material and the time spent getting here.

She turns and crosses the room herself, using the toe of one heeled foot to roll the dying man onto his beck. Then she crouches down at the knees and slides the tip of the needle into the meat of his neck, using her thumb to press down on the plunger and emptying the silver liquid into the half dead human. He gasps for air as soon as the needle is pulled back.

The man twists about, writhing on the floor and scrabbling for his neck with bony, trembling fingers. They scrape over the soft meat of his throat, leaving ragged red lines behind, and then he starts to gasp as if he can’t get any air into his lungs.

The man convulses again, and then, with one last ragged gasp, goes limp. His hands fall to the side, unmoving, and his chest goes still as if he’s dead. Madame Miranda’s face crumples up into a snarl, her brows pinching down and her cherry red lips peeling back to show off her teeth. She jabs a hand toward Knubbs.

Get rid of him, shouts Madame Miranda. Another waste of my time!

Two soldiers about fifteen feet from Knubbs raise their rifles and point them at him, but before they can pull the trigger, he drops a smoke grenade. The air is still thick with it when he throws a punch at one of the men, dropping in two more that knock him upside the head and knock the soldier out. Knubbs spins around, grabbing hold of the second one and breaking his arm with a snap of bone.

The man howls with pain, sinking down onto his knees, and Knubbs brings a foot up, planting it in the man’s chest and sending him sprawling backward onto the ground.

You motherfucker, Knubbs snarls, spinning around to scowl at Madame Miranda. Have some damn patience. It’s not a fucking instant fix, it takes about five minutes before it works. It needs to connect with the nervous system so that it can enhance the entire body!

As though responding to a verbal cue, the man behind Madame Miranda gives one more ragged sharp inhale, to the point where his whole chest rises up off the floor. He rolls onto his hands and knees and then launches himself bodily at Madame Miranda. She sidesteps it easily with an agile grace that Knubbs has never seen before.

The last traces of smoke from the grenade that Knubbs dropped finally vanish, leaving nothing but the scent of sulfur in the air. It removes any elements of surprise that the mysterious sick man might have had on his side, allowing Madame Miranda to avoid the next two punches that he throws at her too.

On the fourth punch, the man has even more momentum built up, like he’s putting everything that he’s got into this one last swing. It doesn’t matter. Madame Miranda gracefully steps aside.

The man skids past her, slamming his balled-up fist into the wall instead, leaving a massive hole in the stone structure. His fist gets lodged into the stone. He lets out an inhumane snarl as he tries to wrench it backward, only for the stone to shift and split open his fist. Blood runs down from the cuts but the man is unhinged, throwing himself around like a coyote stuck in a snare trap. He looks like he’s only a few minutes away from gnawing off his hand at the wrist when Madame Miranda draws her pistol out smoothly.

She fires off one shot, hitting the man square in the head. There’s an explosion of blood and gore, brains splatting onto the wall in front of him. The man’s body goes totally limp, though he’s still partially held up by his