Alina's Revenge

by Greg Van Arsdale

  ALINA’S REVENGE

  This book was originally titled “Alina.”

  It has been heavily updated and edited.

  Chapter 1

  1993, During the Bosnian War

  Alina grew up outside of Brčko, a small village a few kilometers from the northern border of Bosnia. Poor like most people in that region, her family of five eked out a living in the ecological turmoil brought on by the war. Their farm consisted of a weather-beaten, three-bedroom house of unpainted planks, deep brown and cracking, and a dilapidated barn to match. Outside the barn, a few hens sifted through the bare dirt yard, pecking for whatever food they could find.

  Alina’s father, Luka, an ex-soldier, thought it best to sit out this fight. He was a good man, loyal to his country, but after growing dismayed with the regime that controlled his beloved homeland, and being unable to fight the politics, he decided to retire to the isolated life of a farmer.

  Her mother, a sizeable, loving woman, had fallen ill during the war’s last bitter winter when food and firewood became scarce. She never fully recovered her health, leaving twelve-year-old Alina to care for the family. Alina did the laundry. She scrubbed the floors. Alina cooked the meals. She got up before dawn and was still mending the men’s clothes long after dinner. It was a hard life, but she never complained.

  It was not that she was unhappy. She simply knew no other life, and so she never gave her situation much thought. Not until, that is, until one hot summer day when her small world was blown apart.

  It was late in the afternoon. Alina and her mother were on the back porch. Her mother sat in the shade, watching Alina churn the butter. Her father and brothers were in the fields tending to the crops.

  That was when the men came.

  Whooping wild war cries from the back of small pickups, men with beards sped into the yard, shooting indiscriminately at everything. Their trucks spun dust and debris high into the air. Their unruly black hair blew in the wind. On their uniforms was the insignia of the hated Serbian militia.

  Alina stared at them, mesmerized by the spectacle of a dozen dirty warriors brandishing guns, their rifles spitting streaks of thunderous flame.

  Suddenly, bullets zipped past her head, smacking into the wall behind her. She turned around, scared and confused at the terrible sound, uncertain what to do.

  Her mother lunged from her chair and fell on top of Alina as two men fired at point blank range. Alina and her mother hit the ground together. The immense weight of the woman crushed the air out of the little girl’s lungs, making it impossible for Alina to cry out, breathe, or even move. She was trapped.

  Meanwhile, the men shot out the windows, riddling the house with bullets—some that hit mere centimeters away. Amidst the chaos of gunfire, Alina struggled to free herself.

  Then, as quickly as they came, the men were gone. Alina stopped and listened.

  Distant rifle shots.

  Father! she thought. He and the boys were still in the field.

  Alina finally managed to free her hands. She begged her mother to move so that she could breathe, but the woman never responded.

  Pressing her hands against the creaking wooden floor, Alina strained as hard as she could. Her hand slipped on something warm and wet. She looked at it with wondering eyes.

  It was blood.

  Another drop splattered on the splintered panel where she lay. Slowly, trembling, she looked up into the unblinking eyes of her mother.

  She tried to scream, but no sound came from quivering lips. Terrified, she cried, her tears mingling with her mother’s pooling blood. In wild panic, she clawed at the porch floor with a faint, heartbroken whimper, trying her best to get away.

  When her shoulders finally did slide free, her mother’s eyes fell against the boards. Alina turned from the horrible sight, but she could not escape the relentless stare of the dead.

  Shouts and rifle fire erupted from the barn. Father must have made it inside, she thought. Perhaps her brothers were with him. That was good. Maybe they would be safe there.

  Her legs still trapped, she managed to raise her head high enough to see soldiers standing around the barn throwing incendiary grenades through the windows. Fire and thick smoke billowed through the holes, rolling into the sky.

  Some of the Serbs still circled the yard, spinning more dust in a wild melee. All of them fired volley after volley into the burning building, cursing and screaming insults at the helpless men inside. The smoke grew thicker as flames fed hungrily on the dry wood. She knew her father and brothers could not survive much longer.

  Moments later, her oldest brother, Victor, burst through the barn door, his shirt on fire. He fell to the dirt, rolling and screaming in pain. His high-pitched shrieks died in a gurgle of agony as every man shot him at the same instant. They left him where he fell, the boy’s body still burning.

  As Alina watched her brother’s murder, she lay still trapped, unmoving, unblinking, with no emotion at all. Her large eyes were devoid of life. She never even flinched at the sight. All that had happened was just too devastating for her mind to deal with and she could not comprehend all the terrible things that were happening so quickly to her beloved family.

  Just then, her father came out of the barn, his teeth bared and eyes filled with fury. He held an ax with one hand and in the other was the long, curved blade of a harvesting scythe. With deftness honed from years of use, he threw the heavy ax, burying it deep into the face of the nearest man. The dead man fell back, the ax handle suspended in mid-air. Luka then spun and swept the scythe in a wide arc, cutting off another soldier’s right arm above the elbow. The man howled in agony as the severed limb, still clutching the rifle, fell to the dusty ground. An involuntary muscle twitch in the hand fired a harmless shot as it landed.

  Luka turned, eyes glaring for another enemy, but with a deafening roar, the remaining men shot into his body. Again and again they fired. His body jerked with every shot, but he refused to go down. A bullet finally smashed his hand, shattering his grip on the scythe. His fingers gone, he dropped the makeshift weapon. Still he stood, his body shuddering with effort as if defying the enemy his death as long as he possibly could.

  When the firing stopped, Luka dropped to his knees and for a brief instant, his eyes met Alina’s. Her father’s lips tightened. The veins in his neck bulged as he somehow rose to his feet once more. With renewed rage he stumbled toward the captain of the murderous horde, his remaining hand clinched.

  The captain wore his beard shorter than the others did. In contrast to their filthy uniforms, his was clean and well fitted. Through all the carnage, he had leaned on the hood of his car and watched it unfold before him. Now as Luka neared, the captain simply raised his pistol and shot him in the forehead. The impact of the slug knocked Luka backward to the ground where he remained lifeless.

  Alina spied the body of her other brother, who had tried to run away during Luka’s distraction, but was now also dead. His feet extended beyond the corner of the barn, which was now completely engulfed in a blazing inferno.

  Everything went quiet then, all other sound obscured by the roaring crackle of hungry flames. The soldiers looked around the yard, their rifles ready, but saw nothing left to kill.

  Barking commands in rapid staccato, the captain ordered his men into the house to confiscate anything valuable. While they were filing inside, one of them happened to look beyond the dead woman at his feet and saw Alina staring at him with terror-filled eyes.

  With yelps of animal pleasure, the man grabbed her by the hair and dragged her screaming into the yard. The other men laughed and followed. Savagely, they tore at her dress. Horrified, Alina kicked one brute in the face and broke away. She tried to run, but another man grabbed her from behind and
clubbed her face with a closed fist. Alina collapsed, barely conscious, clutching at the shredded remains of her clothes as the evil men now encircled her.

  Ten grown men. Dirty, sweaty, their black beards matted from days of unwashed neglect. Each man fell on her that day and late into the night, taking his turn raping her. The last man kicked her in disgust, laughing at her misery, but Alina was far from feeling by then.

  For hours, the burning night cast its fiendish shadow across the devastating scene. Before the men left, the captain pulled a knife from his waistband. He held it up for Alina to see, smiling at this last insult to the despised Bosnian people. He stabbed her below the stomach and then tore downward, ripping open her abdomen. Without so much as a backward glance, he stepped into his seat and the group rode into the night, leaving Alina to die alone.

  When they had gone, the people of the village came. A missionary doctor who happened to be in the area on a medical visit was helping them sift through the charred debris and gather the bodies to one spot in the center. A teary-eyed woman was covering the little girl’s naked form when Alina turned her head and moaned. The woman shouted alarm. The doctor gathered Alina into his arms and ran to town, racing against time.

  He did what he could, working until the weary hours of the morning. After hours of surgery and donations of blood, he managed to save her life, but Alina’s uterus was destroyed. With time, she would heal, but she could never bear children. That right was stolen forever.

  The exhausted doctor washed his aching hands, soaking them under the cold running water of a rusty faucet. Like the others, he had also seen this senseless slaughter before. Serbs murdering Bosnians, Bosnians killing Serbs, each hell bent on exterminating the other. Both sides fervently believed each horrendous slaughter was justified by the same God.

  The tired missionary shook his head in disgust and looked at the result of humankind’s diseased sense of religion. A little girl laid unconscious, heavily sedated, and wrapped almost head to foot in blood-splotched surgical gauze. Why? What did all this pain and suffering gain? When would the world realize the twisted minds of men is what distorted the Heavenly Devine?

  He stayed with Alina a while longer, ensuring her vital signs had stabilized. With the amount of morphine he gave her, he knew she would sleep for quite a while. It was best that way. Finally, he rose slowly, holding the small of his back. He paused to gaze on her still form once more, then turned off the light.

  ~~~

  Though unable to afford another mouth to feed, a family of seven took Alina in and nursed her back to health. Hugo, the father of the household, had fought alongside Luka during their stint in the Army and had known him well. It was as much a service to him that he accepted Alina as his own.

  An ironic twist was the fame Alina brought to them. When the war ended, newspapers learned of “The Girl Who Would Not Die” and printed her story.

  As the years past, Alina grew stronger and Hugo recognized the grim look of revenge in the girl’s eyes. He had seen that look before and it reflected his own contempt for the Serbs. Though he tried to talk her out of it many times, he knew Alina would not stop until the men who murdered her family were dead.

  Hugo had been a spy for the Bosnian Army and had been trained to operate behind enemy lines. He knew how to move without being seen, how to kill without making a sound. Luka had confided that much to her years before. Now, Alina begged Hugo to teach her those same skills. After months of sincere pleas, he reluctantly agreed.

  From that moment on, Alina did her fair share around the farm, only now she worked with the men, not in the kitchen. She did everything they did, lifting heavy bales of hay, chopping and carrying firewood—all activities to build her strength for the mission that lay before her. And every night, Hugo trained the growing woman in the art of combat.

  Alina was surprisingly agile with long, muscular long legs. Lean and tan, her blonde hair stood out from the rest of the women in that portion of the world.

  Hugo, a fit man himself, often complimented her on how easily she could take him down in hand-to-hand exercises. He taught her how to hunt a man, kill him with a quick knife thrust, and then melt into the night unseen. She also became an expert with any firearm and could hit targets at rifle range with a pistol.

  Alina worked hard. She planted four poles in a secluded section of the farm and padded them with bed stuffing. While everyone else slept, she practiced her martial moves and techniques long into the night. With every kick, she attacked the hated Serbs. Every jab, every elbow thrown crushed the face of those burned so deep into her memory. Alina’s hatred fueled her to greater heights of ferocity and expertise until she could pass from pole to pole in a quick succession of precision-timed kicks, jabs, and elbow thrusts.

  She also set up a makeshift firing range, complete with swinging targets hung from a tree not far from where she pounded the now hopelessly ragged poles. She moved expertly with rolling pistol shots followed by accurate knife throws.

  With every passing year, she got stronger, faster—and her hate grew deeper. The years passed slowly, much too slow for the eager girl who had now grown into a beautiful though bitter young woman. She cut her long, blonde hair short to keep it out of her eyes when fighting, but her blue eyes remained sharp and clear. Wide shoulders spoke of the years of hard work. She was as tough as she was intelligent—a lethal combination.

  Finally, after ten years of growing, ten years of training, the time came to say good-bye.

  “Here,” Hugo said, handing her a key. “Take the Toyota pickup. It isn’t much, a beat up heap of scrap metal, but the engine’s good.”

  “I’ll miss you, Hugo,” Alina said. “You have been good to me, and I thank you.”

  “Do you know where you are going?” he asked as he handed her a pistol.

  Alina looked south and pointed. “There.”

  “But you don’t know who you’re looking for. Those men are distant faces with no names. How will you find them after all these years?”

  “I have their company and unit name engraved in my memory. I can never forget their faces. I remember each one as if it were yesterday.”

  “Do you know where to start?” he asked, watching her pack a knife.

  “I’ll start in Valjevo. It’s a good size city in Serbia. Word has it their unit is stationed there. If any of them are still on the force, that’s where I’ll find them.

  “And if you can’t find them?”

  “I will find them. And when I do, I will kill them. I’ll kill them all. Even if it means I have to die trying.”

  Hugo paused, looking at the ground. “So it comes to that, does it? You’re not coming back.” It was more a statement than a question, but he did not seem surprised.

  Alina did not say a word.

  He stepped forward and hugged her tight. “You’ve been like a daughter to me, Alina. I wish you well.”

  Alina hugged him back, lingering a moment before suddenly breaking it off. She stepped into the small pickup and started the engine. The rusted tailpipe rattled against the undercarriage.

  “If you can find your way back, there’s always a place for you here,” Hugo ventured.

  Alina gave a bittersweet smile. The door squeaked when she shut it. She stared at the steering wheel a bit before speaking. “I’m not coming back,” she said solemnly as she turned to look at him. “You and I both know what’s at stake here, the men I’m after, the danger involved. I have no illusions. I may not live through this, but I vow to bring justice to as many as I can before I die.”

  Hugo frowned, kicked at a pebble in the dirt, and nodded.

  With that, Alina jammed the truck into gear and headed south down the dirt road, dust trailing in her wake.

  Chapter 2

  2003, Sarajevo, Bosnia

  To Alina, Sarajevo seemed like the largest city in the world. Compared to the quiet life in Brčko, the bustling metropolis buzzed with activity. As she drove through the streets, she noticed signs of t
he Bosnian War still lingered—particularly in the suburbs. A bombed out apartment building remained in rubble. Fire-scorched walls left unpainted. War slogan graffiti—all unhealed battle scars a decade since war’s end.

  The city itself was a mixture of modern rebuilt structures and older Ottoman-style buildings of days long past. The streets were newly paved, bomb craters filled in, providing easy access to the hundreds of shopping areas around town. But Alina had no interest in the stores.

  Tired from driving all day, she saw a Holiday Inn on the main street of town. She decided to check in for the night, surprised that an American chain would have a hotel in this place. She carried her duffle bag inside the tan and brown building of classic old-world design, and after signing in, she asked the woman behind the counter the best route to Valjevo. The middle-aged woman lifted her gaze from the computer screen and pointed east. “I don’t know about Valjevo,” she said, “but there’s only one road that heads that way. I’m sure you will see some signs.”

  “Thank you.” Alina smiled and collected the key.

  “If you’re headed for Serbia, you’re asking for trouble. A Bosnian girl your age alone in the middle of Serb territory?” the woman said as she shook her head. “The war is over, but that doesn’t mean they don’t hate us. You’re asking for trouble.”

  “I know, but I have to go.”

  The woman shrugged and motioned to the next customer.

  Alina’s room was Spartan, to say the least. Stained, torn wallpaper covered the walls. The bed caved in on one side with cigarette burns on the sheets. A single chair adorned the threadbare carpet. Still, Alina marveled at what to her was a luxury suite.

  She stripped off her clothes and headed for the shower. Crusty faucets awaited her there. Alina was not surprised, nor did she care. The hot water felt good after so long on the road.

  After toweling off, she walked to the window and surveyed the city below. Her mind wandered, eventually settling for what she would do when she found those men. Bitterness welled within her, a hatred so deep it filled her soul. She combed her hair as she continued thinking about meeting them. She saw their faces again and tried to imagine what they would look like now. They would be grayer, to be sure, but she had no doubt she would recognize them. The more she thought about it, the more memories of that awful night flooded into mind. Her brush strokes became rougher until she was ripping through her hair.