Sarajevo Grab

That pock-mark scarred face, those rat-like eyes, his cheap cologne that, I swear to God he bathes in, off the rack $2 suit coat that looked like it came with a free bowl of soup. Yeah, I knew the guy, even though I couldn't clearly see him. I knew Držislav Grubišić by that rotten cologne a mile away, more if the wind was right. The only reason Nina wasn't fighting to get away was the Makarov pistol hanging, almost dripping from his right hand. That and the bloody lip she was sporting.

After what happened down in the alley and running up through this old building I was trying to to catch my breath and get ready for my next move, whatever that might be. Sweat was starting to crawl down my back. In the dim room that was the entire floor of the building there were few places to hide and the three of us were in the center.

It was a large open floor, almost like a warehouse. There were pillars spaced out at regular intervals throughout the area that I could see. I figured they were nearly 25 feet apart and clearly were throughout the floor plan. The floor itself was concrete and covered with dust, bits of concrete, and odd pieces of litter. That was it, scarred pillars, dust, dirt, litter, and us three.

How did I get here? How is it, on God's green earth, did I wind up in a Mexican standoff on the tenth floor of a prewar warehouse in the middle of Sarajevo?

To start, I'm a Field Operator. Simply put, that means I operate in a field environment. What that really means is that me, a partner, and an interpreter who, while not always necessary and not always making my job easier, is a required part of the team, patrol and maintain sources of information in an assigned geographic area. The work week was just about over for the field aspect and we were heading back to handle some resupply, relaxation, and required briefings.

Just minutes ago I was driving through Sarajevo. We also had to bring our interpreter in from the field for her annual review. I was heading down Lozionicka towards Zmaja od Bosna, morbidly known as Snipers Alley. During the war snipers had regularly set themselves up in the old tower at the end of this road in Old Sarajevo. From there, any decent sniper could hit any target on Zmaja, the main road coming in and out. Picture a tennis racket. There, you just mapped out the old district is the head of the racket, and Zmaja the neck and grip. Zmaja, I chuckled to myself at that name as I saw it on the road sign. It was very close to the word for Dragon, which was Zmaj.

About two blocks up from making our turn, traffic was stopped. Even though I knew the doors were locked, I checked them again, you know, to try to settle that uneasy feeling that something was about to go south fast.

What happened next it wasn't going south, it was going east, and fast. My CUCV, think Chevy Blazer, got slammed in the back right, almost t-boned. The impact spun us so that the vehicle was facing into the alley. Match Stick and I were both dazed, Nina's sudden screaming pierced my fog bank. When I saw her she was being dragged down the alley, kicking and screaming.

The engine was still running. “These damn CUCs are ugly as hell, but they do run.”

“What?” Match grumbled at me.

“Wahdda ya mean what?” I asked, annoyed at the question. I accelerated down the narrow alley where I had seen Nina being dragged. Trash cans, boxes, and bits of refuse bounced up onto the windshield and over the top, obscurring my vision in the process.

“Slow the hell down!” Match Stick ordered.

I had to. The trash on the windshield was blocking enough of my view that I might have run over Nina and whoever was dragging her without even knowing it.

Fully regained his consciousness and back into his seat while almost screaming at me. “What the hell are you doing?!” Match Stick was as upset as I was.

The Army issued Blazer rolled easily over the refuse in the alley. “Someone took Nina.”The reply was so flat and cold that it would have even surprised me had I heard it. Somehow, Eric, that was Match Stick's real name, caught that.

Finally stopping I stared up at the wall with the exposed metal stairs. They went up for at least 20 flights. The entire thing looked rickety as hell.

Eric didn't look at me, he just stared up at the sagging stepps. “Now what are you going to do, Michael?”

“You do have your MP5, right?”

“Of course I do.”

“And your 9mil?”

“That, too. With two extra mags for the pistol.”

“Let me have one of those mags, please.”

“You do realize that I'm the officer here, Petty Officer Second Class.”

“Do NOT tell me that you are pulling rank on me.” I paused, then added, “Sir.”

He shifted in his seat. “Yes. I am.”

I couldn't believe this. I thought I knew Eric. We had been teamed up for several months now. Working, training, working out, getting drunk, into and out of trouble together. I mean, you think you know a guy, and then he goes and pulls rank on you!

“I order you, Petty Officer, to take these two extra 9mm magazines and go get our interpreter while I radio for back up and stand guard over the classified material we have here in the vehicle.”

I spun and looked at him in disbelief. He held out the two mags. The smile happened and I didn't even know it until I had the mags secured in my cargo pockets.

“Good luck,” Eric said as I jumped out of the busted up Blazer.

Most of the time the stairs in these old Soviet era buildings are almost exterior to the buildings themselves. It's as if they were built on the outside as an afterthought and then walled over to provide a minimum of weather protection. Not this time. The rusted stairs complained every step I took, and I took every step running. The idea of crashing through did come to mind, but, if someone could make it up dragging Nina, then I could, too.

Finally, the end of the line came. The metal frame just dangled from the side of the brick wall. The door at this point hung open unlike the others which were all closed. It had been extremely shortsighted of me to just haul up but, here I was, at the top, hoping that I was at the right one.

The room was one large open room; it was the entire floor. The space was broken up mainly by pillars spaced about the place, a few old desks, some chairs that had been thrown about, what light there was came in through stained windows. The daylight lit up the dust in the air, air that was heavy with a musty smell.

I started to make my way around the room to my right, keeping my back to the wall. My plan was to search the room methodically and quickly. That is, until there was a thud followed by a muffled groan. Quickly after that a woman yelped sharply, in pain, I figured. It had to be Nina. Relief flooded my mind. Up until that moment I could only hope that I had picked the right floor to start searching. The noise came from the shadows near the back of the floor where there were no windows. Made sense to me to hide there and to head that way from a more lighted area, well ...

Walking towards that large shadow was unnerving. There was no way to know who was there, how many there might be, how well armed they were, or not. I just had to expect that there was at least a squad, maybe a platoon and that I was walking into a trap now. Still, running away would only be a sure way to get shot in the back and leave Nina in the hands of who knew what. I had to try, had to do something.

“Dat is close enough.” The accent was thick and heavy. The voice was annoying and somewhere between scratchy and squeaky. Then I caught a whiff of that God forsaken chemical mixture that someone claimed was cologne … Grubišić? I tried to reject the thought as soon as it entered my head. That slug was as repugnant as they came. To think that he got the drop on me and got his hands on Nina … eeeeewwww! The shudder was completely involuntary, but as soon as he came out of the shadows holding onto Nina, I couldn't help it.

That's how I came to be here, in the shadowy, dusty, musty open floor looking at the scum of the earth holding onto my terp, my friend. I was pissed. What I really wanted to do was just blot over there and beat the little turd into a bloody pulp and leave him for the cockroaches to carry away, but that Makarov pistol dangling from his right hand made me think twice, maybe even three times, about it.

“It vould seem ve have a problem, Michael.” He laughed a little, as if just saying that was so funny.

I stepped forward easily as I responded, “No, there's no problem, Držislav. I can have that old CUCV down there written off and replaced. No one will miss it.” Držislav must have squeezed Nina's arm, she whimpered a little, so I stopped walking. “See? No problem.” Still, I was a few feet closer. So long as I could keep the runt talking and inching my way in I could figure a way out of this. If I went for my gun or twitched too soon, Nina and I would both be dead.

“The problem, it seems, is that you have gotten into my business just about everywhere, Michael.” He must have figured out how much I hated being called Michael. Not even my mother calls me that! I swear, I am going to stomp his teeth out for that, I promised myself.

I knew what he was talking about. This guy was into almost anything that could make money, but he was such an idiot that he couldn't make enough profit to put two dimes together, when he did he would drink them or snort it up his nose. The thing that really burnt me up was that Držislav was into human trafficking. He liked them young, too. He provided his girls for UN police, politicians, and some other select customers. He provided all sorts of women for dance halls and hotels all over the country.

Just last week there was a large shipment of illicit cigarettes that had been stopped at the border crossing near Split, Croatia on its way into Bosnia. Yes, I was there for that. I had to be, my contacts got me the goods on it. I was so thrilled when the truck was opened. The trailer was packed with unstamped boxes of cigarettes. “Držislav, cone on, man, it was just cigarettes. We both know that you've lost more than that over a weekend of gambling or lumber smuggling.” I shifted from one foot to the other to move in closer with each shift.

“This isn't about CIGARETTES!” he screamed back, spit sprayed from his mouth. I had never seen him this mad. I really did not know what to expect from him. “Radic! Zdravko!” With that two large guys came out of the shadows behind Držislav and stood side by side and behind him several feet. It was as if they didn't want to get close to his cologne either. There was no mistaking what those two were there for, and I didn't like it. Their presence made very clear what I had to do.

My shoulders dropped slightly, as if relaxing a bit. We all knew that the next few moments were going to get tense. We also knew that not all of us were going to walk out of there.

Radic and Zdravko were just what you'd expect from a couple of thugs. Both had close cropped hair leaving nothing to grab on to. Their necks were thicker than their heads. Between the two of them you might be able to count up 25 teeth and almost two full ears. Them and Grubišić with that pistol and Nina facing me. That is a shit ton of weight to bear on one man's shoulders. That empty, dust filled, sun streaked room suddenly felt more like a dank, dark, dreary tomb than anything else. The next few seconds passed so quickly but felt slow and smooth, just like we practiced back at the house.

The two thugs came toward me in a slightly staggered pattern. The closest one reached to grab me with both hands. I stepped into him, twisted, and swung my right elbow up hard under his chin. Adrenaline was pumping through my system, the strike snapped his head back hard. As I was also a few inches taller. His throat was exposed for a few vital moments. The hard point of my elbow slammed down into the cartilage, crushing his windpipe. The tracheal notch is also a pressure point that can make someone sit down hard when pressed into with your fingers. To say that he collapsed under the pressure would be an understatement. I wasn't sure if the concrete floor cracked or if it was his knee caps when he hit the floor.

The second guy had me from behind now. He threw me hard against one of the concrete pillars in the room. The first shots to my kidneys sent waves of agony through me, stopping all thought. Somewhere in my mind, I knew I had to move or this was going to be it. There was a rhythm to his hits, left, right, left, right. I shifted as quickly as I could. It worked. His huge fist slammed into the crumbling concrete. The damage was immediate, he shouted as the bones in his hand crumbled.

I struggled to keep my feet for a few moments to reorient myself, and shook my head a little to clear the cobwebs. Yes, it really was dusty and dim in here, that was not just how I was seeing things after having my kidneys pummeled. Now my old Drill Instructor was coming back to yell at me, “Stay light on your feet, Thompson! Keep moving! If you stand still you're DEAD!” Just like then, I started to shuffle a bit, to move around. Then, I smiled. Yeah, it was coming back. This was fun now. I was moving, the pain was being shut off by my body and I was mobile. This guy, he smiled back at me as we circled each other.

I snapped a quick jab and hit his hand. He grimaced. I stepped in with the greatest right hook since Ali fought. His left fist somehow had transformed into a frying pan, I swear to God it had, and it slammed squarely into the front of my face. I was knocked flat on my back. I knew my nose and mouth were bleeding now. My eyes were watering up. Damn, that guy was fast with his hands! ... err, hand ...

I tried to wipe my eyes clear to see where this behemoth was exactly, no good. He was there. It was one of those things like when you know that you are being watched, but, this time, I also knew just where this guy was by gut feeling.

I stomp kicked out. I heard the crack rather than felt anything. What I did feel was his weight collapsing on me as one of his legs buckled. I had caught his knee, broke it instantly. Now, there he was, clinging to my legs with one good arm, one hand shattered and a busted knee. There I was, beneath this guy who was, as far as I knew, still out to kill me. I started raining punches down onto the top of his shaved head, bloodying it, until he finally rolled off of me. Sobbing, he lay there in the dust and mildew on the floor, blood puddling underneath him, with his shaking hands on the back of his head. Clearly, he was surrendering. “Dajem otkaz,” was the only thing he said. He repeated it several times.

“Nina, I don't know what this guy is saying.” Nina didn't respond. My heart skipped a beat. My breath hung tightly in my lungs as I looked around expecting to see Nina dead on the floor. I jumped into a fighting stance and looked about. It only took a moment to see that they were gone. Grubišić hauled out during the fight. He couldn't be more than a few seconds ahead.

In the dark, shadowy corner where Grubišić had been with Radic and Zdravko moments earlier, a sliver of light was now present near the floor. Of course, a door. I looked over at the guy on the floor, “Stay.” and then darted through the door. Aboove me, in the concrete stairwell were the footsteps of Grubišić and Nina.

The doors here opened into the rooms. The one on the nest floor was just swinging into a half open position. Slamming through it I found myself in a similar room as the one below. The exception being this one was full of desks and people. The occupants were men and women, most of whom were busy running out through the door on the other side. Papers were strewn everywhere, some were still falling to the floor. Grubišić stood in the middle of the room behind Nina. He started shooting at me.

I dove to the left in hopes of finding cover and concealment behind the ancient metal desks from the old Stalinist are that outfitted the room. Now, if I can wind my way up toward this nut job and keep him shooting, maybe he will run out of ammo … and MAYBE I won't get shot … too badly in the process. I thought to myself. With that intent solidified, I launched myself over the desk and between the next two desks up and over to the right. Grubišić was still there and he fired again. I heard a metallic sound as his clip hit the floor. In my mind I could see him going through the motions of reloading. This would be an ideal time to return fire, to take advantage of the moment, but with Nina held in front of him, I might hit her.

“I'll get … “ I started to shout out to Nina something encouraging, but was interrupted by Grubišić suddenly gasping, swearing sharply, and then Nina yelping a little. She took the moment to hurt the grub. I laughed in spite of everything. “Where'd you get him, Nina?”

“Elbow to the nose,” she called back quickly. Her voice was silenced with another quick gasp. I peeked around the desk enough to see the Grubišić had her tight by the hair and had his gun up under her chin. I could also see that his nose was bleeding. I was so proud of her. Grubišić was backing toward the door now.

I rolled quickly toward the wall near the door. Their footsteps were definitely going up again. Up to the next floor I went, too.

At the next floor I knelt down near the door and eased it open a crack. The room was fill of cages. So far as I could see, each cage had one woman or girl in it. This was part of Grubišić's human trafficking operation. With all of these ladies in here I wanted no shooting, but knew that Grubišić and his lunk heads would likely not be so cooperative. I holstered my Beretta and dropped my hand to the grip of the Smith and Wesson knife that a good friend, a sniper I had worked with, had given me. The day he gave it to me, he said, “Don't ever get caught in a foreign country without a good knife.” As I slid that sharp piece of hardened steel quietly from its sheath I crept into the shadowy room of cells.

The first attack came from behind me. The guy grabbed me around the neck with an arm that felt like an elephant's trunk. The floor disappeared from under my feet. I switched the knife into my left hand so that I could reach the brachial artery under the arm around my neck. I stabbed and sliced until artery, muscle, and sinew were so damaged that holding onto me was impossible. Looking around, I watched this guy falling down, blood gushing from his masticated arm. “Nice knowing you, pal,” I said, and moved on.

It occurred to me that, if I did not find Nina quickly she was going to wind up in one of these cages somewhere. There were times for pussyfooting around and there were times for walking loud. “Grubišić! You know I don't stop!” The chatter from the ladies in the cages stopped. “C'mon old boy! Speak out!” I walked out into the area where the caged ladies were, most of them were newly acquired and young. They were frightened, beaten, starved, and many of them worse. The older ones just looked on coldly, vacantly as I walked by. There must have been 150 women on this floor. Right then I hoped that there weren't any more. “Grubišić. I know that you can hear me. This was not about getting my interpreter, was it?” I paused for a few moments. “No, of course not. She is lovely and petite. You really are, Nina, believe me, you are.” I turned around and kept looking to keep every angle in view, as if that were really possible for one man to do. “Nah! Grubišić, you wanted to get one of the SFOR guys alone. You wanted to get me alone. That's why you smashed up my vehicle.” Then, I waited.

“Yes, you are the target.” Grubišić came out into the lighted area with Nina and stood in front of me. “You have been in Banja Luka for such a short time, but have caused such big problem for so many people.” He shook his head and smiled in a mocking way. “Such a pity to see young man come to end so early in his career.”

I looked around the area. “What? You talking about me? Hey! I'm just doing my job, it's nothing personal.” I was repositioning myself so I could get my hand to my gun without getting his attention as well. I was also hoping I could figure out a way to make some space happen between him and Nina at the same time. “I am the target and you're telling me that I've made a lot of people angry in a short time. Powerful people, I'm guessing, huh?”

“You have no idea, Michael. No idea how powerful. Family that was here before the war even ended.”

That narrowed it down some. I wanted to get more out of this moron. “This bounty, then is it a dead or alive thing?” Sometimes I am really good at asking the wrong thing. Then there are times that I excel at asking things I wish I could take back. Grubišić answered by cocking his pistol.

The ladies in the cages heard the pistol cock and started cheering, hooting, and whistling. Looking at Grubišić and women around us, I put my pistol back into its holster and secured it there. He smiled a sick a twisted smile. “How touching, Michael. You care for the safety even of these.” He held his pistol at arms length in my direction and fired. There was screaming behind me. Christ, this guy just shot one of them!

“Držislav, there is no need for that!”

“No, Michael! There is every need for that!” Now his pistol was aimed straight at me.

I dove forward and to the side, rolling and coming up to my feet with a pillar between him and me. Two shots rang out. The chaos that erupted was unbelievable. From where I was I could not see if anyone else had been shot. That included Nina. A sick feeling exploded in my stomach and my skin prickled. For the first time since starting up the stairs I found myself wishing that Eric was with me. Still, I knew what I had to do in order to save Nina, put an end to this situation, and get back to headquarters to file the hours long reports, if I was to be that lucky.

“A bounty, huh?” There was no answer. “How much am I worth?” Držislav did not reply. I stepped out from behind the pillar and there he was, Nina in front of him. He held her with his arms around her neck ready to choke her but with the gun still in his hand.

“Of course you are worth more alive. The gentleman wants to feed you to his pets.”

That was it. That was all I needed to know who was paying the bounty. It was Blazević. It made perfect sense, too. The man owned the Hotel Sherwood outside of Prijedor. His family, father to be precise, had been involved in the war as a mercenary running his own private unit. They were a bloody unit, too. They called themselves the Tigers. Everywhere they went they left a trail of blood, bodies, and destruction. They did everything short of salting the earth so nothing would grow.

Crimes of all sorts take place at that hotel. Everything from human trafficking to murders. Human trafficking is where Grubišić fits. This warehouse was more than enough evidence of that. From what I could see of the faces and women in the cages around me, there were dozens that were in their teens and just being brought into this nightmarish life. Most of the others were older and already part of the horror show that had become their lives.

Now, standing in cages, screaming in different languages, a couple of lunatics in front of them, their world could not have been turned more inside out and upside down.

Nina tried to fight out of Grubišić's hold. He instantly tightened down on her. I knew that she was going to black out in seconds. I did not know if he was going to hold on long enough to kill her, which would only take a few seconds longer. I rushed in.

Nina was clawing at Grubišić's arm as her mouth opened like a fish's once pulled out of water. Like the fish, there was nothing going through to provide any breath. The muscles around her throat were tightening in spasmodic reflex to the pressure, her mind was spinning in panic as the blood had been stopped. Her eyes filled with fear. I could see it all over her face, help me. She was begging for help. One hand, one delicate hand reached out towards me while I sprinted in. That hand, and the arm, fell limp at her side .

Grubišić was just letting go of Nina's limp body as I slammed my fist, with the full speed and weight of my running body behind it, into his face. His nose popped like a ripe watermelon. His head snapped back, his body following uncontrollably. He and Nina both collapsed in a heap.

Quickly, I pulled Nina away from Grubišić to check for signs of life. Before checking for a pulse I looked at her chest. Her delicate frame moved rhythmically, her breast rose and fell. Thank, God! She was still breathing. My moment of relief was interrupted by a sharp impact to my face. Someone kicked me.

The kick knocked me over and I rolled with it to get some distance and regain my feet. I came up into a low fighting stance. The pounding and throbbing on the side of my face was enough to tell me that I was busted open. Grubišić stood there, his pistol pointed right at my face. I had to move several inches to the side in the same amount of time that he had to move his finger one quarter of an inch. I was screwed if I thought too much about it.

Dropping and ducking to the left I was able to move enough out of the way that, when the gun fired, the bullet just grazed my head. He repositioned his arm and swore. The gun slide had locked back. He was empty! I laughed and lunged forward into him. Wrapping my arms around his legs and pulling against the back of his knees, I pressed against him with my shoulder and he collapsed.

At some point during a fight, a person's perspective changes. For me, it's gone to one of three different views. One, has been surrealistically slow motion. In this view I can see my opponent clearly, but the world around us is blurry. He and I are moving in slow motion, although I can easily see every move that he is making. The second view has always been rather unnerving. I black out and go into auto-pilot. In this mode, the fight typically is very bloody and ugly for everyone involved, but it's also the one in which I know, going into it, that I am going to be the one standing when it's done. The third is nothing, no change in perspective. Everything maintains its sense of reality and you generally feel every hit and kick even though your body won't react to the pain of the impact until later. This time, this fight, as Grubišić collapsed under me, nothing changed for me.

We hit the ground and, as quickly as possibly, I scrambled up on top of him; ground and pound had begun. His nose was already bloody and his face hegan to match. Something smashed into the side of my head, knocking me off to the side. As I hit the ground it occurred to me that he still had that empty pistol in his hand.

We were both scrambling to our feet now. He was just ahead of me and moving slower than he should be. I could see every movement he was making. I heard nothing, no sound now, I was completely focused on him. Everything was surrealistically slow.

The kick hit me in the gut hard, but didn't do anything. He was smaller than me. It looked as if the force of his kick had moved him back a little. The next one came in from the side, a roundhouse kick, as I stepped in and took it on the shoulder. I also was able to slam a fist into him somewhere in his lower abdomen. Throwing his kicking leg up straight over him I figured I could dump Grubišić on his head. Turns out he's quite acrobatic. The handspring he did landed him on his feet, but with me following up like a charging bull.

With my back foot pushing against the ground and my front foot still in the air I landed a solid punch squarely into the tip of his jaw. Grubišić stumbled back into a heap. Standing there, catching my breath, the world and its noises began to come back into focus. The women in the cages around me, screaming, became louder and filled my head again. Everything came up to normal speed.

I walked around Držislav, sonofabitch was still conscious! He looked at me crookedly and smiled another sick smile, this one covered with blood and missing a few teeth. “Don't ever call me 'Michael' again.” I kicked him hard across the jaw. His head snapped to one side. He went limp, but I think he was still breathing.

Nina, I had to check on Nina. I knew that she was breathing when this all had started. There was something else in the cacophony now, boots stomping, running. I looked up just in time to see several men in dark blue fatigues rushing in around me, weapons leveled. I was being grabbed and jerked down onto my knees, guns pressed against my head.

“I am SFOR!” I shouted. “I work for for the Stabilization Forces! I am SFOR. Check my ID!” Over and over I repeated SFOR. Finally, I heard Nina's voice behind me. She was talking with someone in Italian. These guys were Caribinary, the Italian shock troops. Hot damn, I said to myself and smiled. Someone came over and spoke to me. All I could understand was something about identification. That and the guns pulling back was enough for me. I showed him the SFOR badges and he smiled. He was thickly built swaggering guy. Taking my hand he pulled me to my feet and gestured towards the door. A couple of his men escorted Nina and me down to the vehicles in the alley.

I emptied a bottle of water over my face and head to wash the sweat and blood off. It felt good. Everything hurt. I dug into my left shirt pocket for my cigarettes only to pull out a crushed and crumpled pack. Opening it I saw that every last cigarette was crushed, bent, and mutilated. There was nothing there but loose tobacco, filters, and scraps of paper. Eric stood there and laughed at me.

“You are damned lucky, Mike.” He tossed me a fresh pack of smokes.

Putting on an overly dramatic face of feigned innocence, I replied, “Whaaat? Whaddya mean?” I even spread my arms as if to indicate that there was nothing going on around me that was at all out of the ordinary and then lit up, first aid could wait another few minutes.

“You are damned lucky that you had signed out a CUCV rather than a Land Cruiser. You know how the Boss is about those!”

Even though I was still smiling a cocky-assed grin, I knew that he was right. In spite of everything else, the Boss would have had a cow, and then had my hide stretched and tanned, if one of his Land Cruisers had been damaged.

More than likely, there was a reprimand coming from the boss for this, destruction of US property and the like. If it had been his predecessor the loss of a CUCV would not have been an issue as it was going to be replaced with a Land Cruiser; however, this CO was not so understanding. All I could be certain of was that tonight I was going to be good and drunk by the time I finished the report on this incident.

(C) Marc Trepanier