The sickly copper taste of blood filled Bond's mouth. His head rolled forwards with a soft crack from his neck and a trail of the thick red liquid dropped from his lips, slowly starting to run its course down his bare, battered chest. His bottom jaw was quivering uncontrollably and Bond only hoped it wasn't due to some major damage, though he could hardly blame it on the temperature. He was shirtless, his feet bare and his trousers ripped, but the room was filled with a heavy, damp heat that forced a veil of sweat over the open cuts, wounds and bruises that stood out on his pale skin. A mixture of blood and sweat had flattened his black hair, plastering it in unruly strands across his forehead. He was slowly clasping and unclasping his fingers, trying to keep the circulation going in his hands – the rope that bound them together was so tight it had sliced through skin, painting his palms with crimson spider webs. His feet were in much the same condition, the heels bruised from where they were crushed against the thick legs of the chair he had been bound to.

The chair was a large, heavy thing made of roughly cut wood which pierced its way into Bond's skin. Its back was far too high for Bond to swing his hands over the top – they were bound behind it, anchoring him in place. Looking up into the room's dim red lights, Bond could just make out the silhouettes of the three men, two in smart black uniforms and one in a bright white suit minus the jacket, which hung from a boiler pipe a short distance away. The man's shirt clung to his sweating skin, yet he had not loosened his tie by the slightest amount and so it remained snugly nestled against his throat. Stepping forwards, he revealed his face in the burning red glow. He was Chinese with a long but muscular face. His thinning dark hair was greased back and streaked with grey. His fearsome scowl etched deep lines into his features.

"Mr Bond, you have lied to me, killed my very valuable colleague and now you refuse to speak to me," the man said in a harsh whisper of a voice. "Do not make me ask you again – the details of Operation Storm Front, please. How do MI6 plan to stop me?"

Bond gave his captor a long steel-like stare, his icy blue-grey eyes fixed on the man in white. Then he leaned forwards as far as his restraints would allow and spat a mouthful of blood and saliva into the man's face. The white-suited man swore sharply under his breath, before turning to one of the other two men and barking orders at him in Mandarin. Bond's breathing grew heavy as he braced himself, knowing what was coming would not be pleasant.

The darkly-suited man rushed forwards, rifle in his hands. He glared at Bond for a moment, who stared back, suppressing his fear. With one swift motion, the rifle butt was rammed into the side of Bond's head, forcing it aside with a dull 'crack'. Bond felt the crumpling of bone in the side of his head, sending a wave of agony crashing through his skull. A deep tortured scream broke through his lips, but he only heard it as a distant echo due to the heavy metallic ringing in his now-bloodied ear. Drawing in strained breaths through clenched teeth, Bond turned back in time to see the man raise the rifle again, the butt still aimed at him. This time it came crashing down to land between his forcibly opened legs. The result was terrifying.

Bond's whole body convulsed, straining madly against the vice-like ropes that bit into his flesh. Sinews swelled up violently against the skin of his neck and he let out a strangled scream so loud that it was clearly audible even through his damaged left ear. The pain pounded and stabbed violently where the weapon had struck him, forcing the air from his lungs, causing his sweat-drenched chest to heave uncontrollably.

"Don't keep me waiting, Mr Bond!" yelled the man in the white suit. "What are MI6's plans?"

"I'm not… telling you… anything… Feng!" It was a struggle for Bond to speak, but he just about managed it.

"Very well, Mr Bond, we shall do this, as you English say, the hard way."

Feng retreated to the back of the room, into the darkness that lay beyond the fiery red glow of the lights. There was a faint metallic 'clang' and then he reappeared, holding a metal bucket in either hand, each with words Bond couldn't quite make out printed on their surface.

"This bucket," he said, holding up the one in his right hand, "contains water. And this one," he held up the one in his left, "contains gasoline. I don't think I need to explain much more. If you tell us what we want to know, the water will be your reward, Mr Bond. If not, then we have no need to keep you alive."

The second black-uniformed man stepped forwards, taking the bucket of gasoline from Mr Feng. Bond looked up at the metal container as the man raised it above his head. Suddenly tipping the bucket, he drenched Bond's whole body in the clear liquid, taking particular care to cover his head and groin. Once the bucket was empty and Bond was soaked, the man threw the bucket aside and Feng stepped forward, drawing a box of matches from within his pocket.

"Tell me what I want to know, Mr Bond, or I will burn off your face, your manhood and the vast majority of your skin."

Bond was silent.

"NOW, Mr Bond…"

Bond looked up, meeting his gaze, but never saying a word.

"Very well."

Feng slid the small cardboard container open, the scratching of the interior and exterior boxes the only noise in the vast boiler room, other than the soft hissing of the pipes that snaked their way back and forth overhead. Drawing out a single wooden match from amongst the others, Feng slid the box shut again and placed the match's red tip against the slim rough rectangle that ran along one face of the box.

There was a short, sharp scratching noise as Feng scored the match along the surface. A near-silent crackle. A sudden burst of light that quickly settled into a small flame.

"Last chance, Mr Bond."

Silence.

"In that case, enjoy your own personal Hell."

The match, the small wooden stick with its illuminated golden tear drop at one end, crept ever closer to Bond. He leaned forwards. He spat.

The small amount of gasoline he had caught in his mouth shot towards the match, ignited and came to rest on Feng's collar.

The flames billowed up, quickly expanding, running along Feng's neck and the thin stubble that was sprawled across the bottom of his face. He screamed out, desperately clawing at the fire, trying to extinguish it, but succeeding only in burning the skin of his hands.

One of the darkly dressed henchmen ran at Bond, bringing his rifle up. As his finger squeezed the trigger, Bond quickly used all the might he still had to swing himself as far sideways as possible. The bullets missed him by inches, instead blasting large holes into the chair's back. Long cracks started to splinter their way along the length of the wood. Bond saw his chance. He threw himself back, hard, sending the chair crashing to the metallic ground. The back shattered to pieces, many of which stabbed at Bond's back, drawing fresh blood. He ignored the pain – it was nothing compared to what he had already been through. One shard of wood was trapped between his back and his arms. Placing his hands on either side of the long, thin fragment, Bond pulled hard. The rope that served as handcuffs burnt and tore at his damaged skin. Again, Bond resisted the urge to give in to the pain and the rope eventually snapped against the wood.

With his freed hands, Bond pushed himself back up. His feet were still tied to the bottom half of the chair, which he had just forced back into an upright position, but at least he could now stand. On his feet, the chair pushing into the back of his legs, Bond looked into the eyes of the stunned henchman who was still stood in front of him. Grabbing the barrel of the rifle, Bond pulled the man closer and greeted him with a fist to the jaw. The man fell to the ground, releasing his grip on his weapon. Bond used the rifle butt to smash what was left of the chair apart, breaking the front legs off. Pulling them out of the rope that linked them to his ankles, Bond advanced on the second henchman. The man was raising his gun, but Bond got there first, using the rifle to shoot the man down. He dropped, hitting the floor with an echoing thud and a blood-choked scream.

Looking down at where Feng was screaming on the floor, flames still furiously burning away the skin of his neck and face, Bond picked up the bucket of water.

"I suppose you want this?"

In answer, Feng raised a desperate hand, writhing desperately in an attempt to grab the bucket.

"Unfortunately," said Bond, "I don't like walking around being highly flammable."

He lifted the bucket and emptied the contents over his own body, washing away the gasoline that had covered him. Then he grabbed Feng just below his ignited collar and dropped the bucket on top of his head, before slamming the rifle butt into it.

"You know, I think I can hear footsteps upstairs, Mr Feng." said Bond calmly. "Operation Storm Front must have been a success. MI6 will be with you shortly."

The huge, blackened scar still stained Mr Feng's neck and face. He was sat on the opposite side of the table to Bond, a few seats away from Schaal. A couple of rounds had passed and the stakes were growing ever higher. Players were folding more and more and Bond, Schaal and Feng were the only three players left in this round. Four cards were already on the table – two tens, a seven and a three. Bond glanced down at the two cards in front of him – a three and a Queen. He had a pair, but the odds were against him.

"One billion." announced Feng, making his bet.

"Call." said Schaal, putting forward the same amount.

"Call." said Bond quickly, not willing to look weak. He had to match their bets, to look like the player with the winning hand.

The fifth and final card was dealt on the table. The King of Diamonds. Bond's hand was not improved.

"Two billion." Feng said calmly, as though the matter was of no importance.

"Call." Schaal matched the bet again.

"Call." Bond pushed a few plaques forwards, matching the bet. Fifteen billion was in the pot – half the total amount of donated money.

Feng was first to turn his cards over – a ten and a King.

"Full house." the croupier announced. "Tens full of Kings."

Schaal folded. So did Bond. Both were defeated.

"Looks like you're taking quite a battering here, Mr Bond." said Feng, gathering his winnings.

"Mm. Well done, Mr Feng," said Bond in a polite, casual tone. "You're on fire."

He smiled a little at the glowering look Feng gave him.