He had to get out of the building. Whatever drug they had given him would take effect soon, and he had no desire to stay around and find out what these effects would be. He leaned against the stained plaster of the wall of the narrow, dark hallway, bent over and grasped his knees with trembling hands. His breath was coming in gasps now, as if he had just run a marathon, but he had to get away.
His heartbeat was throbbing in his head as he straightened up and stumbled down the dingy hallway. He reached around and felt the small of his back. His two Berettas were gone, which he expected.
He reached the door at the end of the hallway, and pressed his ear to it. He couldn't hear anything, so he cautiously edged the door open. He slipped inside, pressing his back to the wall, and glanced around the room. It was empty, and decrepit, filled with junk like the rest of the building, except for the room in which they had drugged him. That room had been brightly lit, and sterile, almost like a laboratory.
He moved around the room, looking for something to use as a weapon when they came for him, for they would, he knew. The information he had was much too important to them for them to just let him walk way.
He kicked over some boxes, and found a three foot length of two by four. He hefted, and liked the weight of it in his hands. He could do much with this. His training taught him to use his surroundings as a weapon, and although it wasn't as deadly as the twin Berettas he was used to, he still felt more secure with the club in his hand.
He was breathing even harder now, and his heartbeat was faster. He willed himself to keep moving. There was another door in the room, and he moved toward it, staying in the shadows beside the walls. Once again, he listened carefully, then tried the knob. The door was locked. He swore, and tried to control his breathing as he stepped back. Grasping the two by four tighter, he lifted it above his head and smashed it down on the knob. He was rewarded by the sound of splintering wood, and the knob clattered to the floor. He reared back and kicked the door with all of his waning strength. The jamb splintered, and the door swung open. He bent over, to catch his breath, then steadied himself on the broken jamb as he stumbled through.
This room was a lot like the one he had just come from, except this one had a window. He could feel his pulse pounding ever harder in his head, and he was struggling to breath,fighting an overwhelming feeling of strangulation. He forced himself to calm down, and staggered to the window. Just as he reached it, the other door swung open, and a man dressed in black combat gear stepped inside. As the thug came through the door he looked up and spotted him standing by the window. His eyes widened, and as his left hand began lifting the radio he carried to his lips, the right started to bring the menacing MP-10 hanging from a strap around his shoulder, to bear.
He quickly evaluated his options and realized he did not have time to cover the short distance between himself and the armed man before he would be eviscerated by bullets from the submachine pistol.
Years of training kicked in, and he turned slightly on the balls of his feet, and whipped the wooden club he carried over his head and released it. It turned end-over-end once, twice, then smashed into the thugs forehead knocking him out cold. He turned, and launched himself out the window, bouncing off of a fire escape, and falling a story before landing in a dumpster. Everything went black.