58

Maat looked at Johnson Wallace, sprawled on a mattress on the floor of the headquarters tent. The windowless tent was lit only by the screen of a small laptop on an iron stool. On another stool, in the same pile, lay a spotted mabuta with general stars on shoulder straps, an army dark green T-shirt, and her, Maat, a gray tracksuit, under the stool, stood next to her pink sneakers and his heavy berets. His swimming trunks and socks were crumpled on the canvas floor, her beige bra, black panties, white stockings.

Maat looked at the 50-year-old warrior and saw the boy who lived in her yard as a child. Cocky, gambling, curious, reckless. A doppelgänger, a hooligan, a moron. He lay on his stomach, and Maat looked at the powerful muscles of the back, strong buttocks, the knotted muscles of strong legs accustomed to running and walking. The tanned, hairless body resembled a strong animal and a Roman statue of a god at the same time. The sensitive predator felt her gaze and turned over, showi
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