Free Mark of Evil by Tim Lahaye, Craig Parshall

Impaler” Malatov. A few sportswriters occasionally joked about Malatov’s custom of always wearing a mask in the ring. But of course no one would dare to laugh about that if Malatov was in the same room, or even in the same building.
    A dull roar filled the auditorium as refreshment hawkers strolled up and down the aisles yelling out to the chattering fans. But the noise evaporated the very instant the house lights dimmed. The ring was illuminated with spots, and a light shone at the far end of the auditorium where Vlad Malatov would appear. There came the sound of kettledrums beating, first softly, then louder, until the percussive pounding of drums filled the entire coliseum.

    Malatov, the six-foot-five, 235-pound Russian, now stood in the spotlight in the doorway, dressed in black trunks. He had a black ski mask covering his face except for two eyeholes and one for his mouth. His body was a chiseled slab of marble. The crowd exploded as Malatov slowly strutted down the raised walkway almost rhythmically, leading with one shoulder and then the other as he loosened his massive biceps while he walked slowly to the glass-enclosed ring.
    Alexander Colliquin turned to his security chief and explained his other reasons for being there. “I wanted to see this,” he said, nodding his head toward Malatov. “I can tell a lot about a man by seeing how he functions under stress. When life and limb are at risk. You’ve compiled the dossier?”
    “We have. But it took quite a bit of digging, Your Excellency. As a boy, Malatov was raised in America. Then migrated to the Russian Republic with his father when he was twelve. Studied international affairs before being recruited as a clandestine operator. First with the KGB just before the end of that agency, and then with its successor, the FSB—the Federal Security Bureau. He was assigned to counterterrorism and covert operations.”
    “Why did he leave?”
    “He was actually relieved of his position by Moscow.”
    “Why was that?” Colliquin asked.
    “I believe,” Mr. Martisse replied, “it was for excessive violence.”
    Down below, the ringmaster entered. He grabbed the microphone that had been lowered into the ring and introduced the two fighters, then announced that the time for placing bets on the match had closed. He then scurried out of the ring and was replaced by the referee, who carried a taser gun strapped to his side.
    Each fighter stood ready in his corner. Then came the bone-jarring sound of a horn blowing like a warning siren before a blitzkrieg , signaling the start of the match.
    Sabiella charged aggressively into the center of the ring and starteddancing, but Malatov came out of his corner slowly, confidently, almost nonchalantly.
    Mr. Martisse whispered to Colliquin, “In past matches, this Sabiella fellow has shown a ruthless ability to overpower his opponents with his size and his judo blows. Renders them helpless with his famous guillotine choke hold until they are lifeless. He has sent four of his opponents to the hospital.”
    Malatov now circled around Sabiella, eyeing him, but his hands remained at his side. Mr. Martisse continued to narrate. “Malatov has only participated in nonsanctioned, unofficial UEFM matches at underground sites. So the rumors about him are formally unsubstantiated, except for some black-market sportswriters who claim to have witnessed his famous attack strike.”
    “What kind of attack strike?”
    Martisse, a veteran of special operations in the French military, hesitated. “Your Excellency, it is rather gruesome . . .”
    On the mat, Sabiella moved to within striking distance of Malatov, reaching out and grabbing at the back of his neck. But Malatov was ready for him and with lightning speed struck Sabiella in the face, and then again and again. The huge Argentinean was stunned for a moment and stumbled slightly, but that was all that it took.
    As Sabiella staggered back, Malatov grabbed him by the throat with his left