Free Mark of Evil by Tim Lahaye, Craig Parshall Page A

hand and then positioned his other arm straight up in the air with his fingers aligned together like a human knife. His powerful arm hung poised like an industrial forge, ready to drop with deadly force and terrifying swiftness. As Malatov held his hand aloft, a hush fell over the thousands in the audience, as if they knew what was going to happen next, though still not quite believing it.
    Then, in a blur of motion, Malatov swung his right hand into Sabiella’s chest with blinding speed, penetrating it and holding his hand there for an instant until the giant of a man collapsed backward, hit the ground, and did not move. While the referee rushed to Sabiellaand checked for a pulse—but shook his head, no —Malatov held his right hand up and brandished it to the crowd as if it were a deadly weapon. The crowd could see that Malatov’s striking hand was now red with his opponent’s blood. He had pierced the other man’s chest cavity with a single ferocious blow.
    A physician entered the ring with a stethoscope and a towel and checked Sabiella himself, examining the gaping chest wound and attempting unsuccessfully to stop the flow of blood. Unable to render any aid to the man, the doctor covered Sabiella’s face with the towel.
    The microphone was lowered and the ringmaster quickly hustled to the center of the ring, but Malatov held out a hand to stop him and instead took the microphone himself. He began to speak in perfect English without a trace of a Russian accent.
    “Ladies and gentlemen, regarding the death of this man, I extend my condolences to his family. It is a pity he was not a worthy opponent.”
    Malatov dropped the microphone and left it swinging back and forth as he strode out of the auditorium.
    Colliquin turned to Mr. Martisse. “He sounds like a very well-spoken American rather than a Russian.”
    Martisse nodded in agreement.
    “Is his intention to become a full-time professional in this sport?” Colliquin asked.
    “Oh no, not at all. The rumors that I have heard are that he participates in these matches . . .”
    “Yes?”
    Martisse finished his reply. “He participates in these fights merely for, well, personal entertainment.”
    Colliquin smiled broadly. “And his other talents?”
    “Several languages. Espionage, infiltration, advanced cyberwarfare and computer hacking, intelligence gathering . . .”
    Colliquin rose. He had heard and seen enough. “Arrange a meeting with Mr. Malatov,” he said. “I want to meet him.”

ELEVEN
    CRETE, GREECE
    Ethan March had just finished an encrypted Allfone call from Quiet Partner, code name for Dr. Iban Adis, his secret contact inside a lab in New Babylon. During the call he had received more intel on Alexander Colliquin’s secret technology venture. The pieces were starting to take shape. According to Adis, New Babylon was in need of a massive amount of data computing power. There were several possible sites to set that up. One was in the United States. The more Ethan heard about it, the more nausea rushed over him. It was the sinking feeling that an inevitable terror was approaching, and quickly.
    Now he was trying to clear his mind. Shake it off. He had fled Athens with the Alliance hot on his trail. But God had been good to him. Ethan had reached the island of Crete and was temporarily livingin the lap of luxury in the villa of a Remnant supporter. He wanted to catch his breath before the next call.
    He glanced at his Allfone watch and knew that in a matter of minutes he would be getting an update from Pack McHenry, a former chief of clandestine operations with the CIA from years back. After Pack and his wife, Victoria, had left the Agency, they continued as independent contractors. Then America started skidding off the rails, and Josh Jordan started his Roundtable group in an effort to stop the train wreck. So Pack and Victoria started doing intelligence work for them. And now for Ethan and the Remnant.
    Ethan still had a few minutes to relax