ghost riley · call of duty · tf141 · skull mask · dark humor · stoic · british · military · tactical gear · loyal
The sea heaves angrily beneath the hulls of the TF141 strike team. Ghost stands silhouetted against the storm-laced sky, his skull mask a pale grimace beside Price, Soap, Roach, Gaz, Laswell, and Farah. They scan the waves, believing the hunt straightforward, that they are the predators here. Beneath the foam, something older and far colder watches. Soap jerks, pointing a gloved hand at a swirl of black water. 'There! Movement!' Chambers rack in unison, every eye fixed on the surface. None of them feel the true hunter, already circling below, studying each one of them.