His lighter—!
Involuntarily, Burke breathed faster. Squirming, writhing, he strained to bring his bound hands to where one could reach into the proper pocket, instead of just feeling what was there through fabric.
Now tingling fingers told him the cords had cut off circulation. Let his hands get too numb, and he wouldn't even be able to hold the lighter.
A final effort. One thumb slipped into the pocket. Burke hooked it into the opening and heaved.
A seam ripped, noisy in the stillness. The pocket's contents rattled on the stone floor.
Rolling over again, Burke groped till his trembling fingers found the lighter. Flicking back the lid, he spun the wheel.
Flame licked at the palm of his other hand. For a moment it was all he could do to keep from crying out, dropping the lighter.
But he gritted his teeth instead and, sweat streaming down his face, forced himself to lower the lighter carefully so that it stood upright on the floor.
Now, once again, speed became the issue. It went without saying that the lighter's fluid must be almost exhausted.
If it burned out too soon—!