A Thrilling Blend of Crime, Conspiracy, and the Book of
Revelation
A brutal murder. A cryptic message. A city on the edge.
When a chilling crime scene in London echoes the apocalyptic
visions of the Book of Revelation, veteran detective DI Morrison turns to an
unlikely expert—The Revd Dr John Woodford, a Baptist minister and biblical
scholar. With his deep knowledge of scripture and an eye for unravelling hidden
meanings, Woodford is drawn into a deadly game of symbolism and power. As they
uncover a hidden network of zealots plotting to bring the city to its knees,
the line between justice and prophecy begins to blur.
Babylon is Falling is a gripping, atmospheric mystery
where faith meets fear and London’s darkest secrets are laid bare.
Chapter 1: Behold a Pale Horse
The first thing the jogger noticed was the open door.
It was barely dawn, the streets still washed in that quiet
grey light that made everything look unreal. Samuel Barnes ran this route every
morning, looping past Smithfield Market before cutting back towards Farringdon.
He liked the stillness before the city shook itself awake. The air still
smelled of the night—cold, damp, untainted by the day’s fumes.
St. Olave’s Church was one of those forgotten places, wedged
between newer buildings, its stonework blackened by time and traffic. It hadn’t
been used in years. Sometimes rough sleepers tried to break in, but the council
kept it locked up, a relic waiting for redevelopment. So when Samuel saw the
door ajar, a thin sliver of darkness against the worn wood, he slowed.
A trick of the wind? He told himself he should keep running.
Then he saw the blood.
It pooled just beyond the threshold, thick and glistening in
the half-light, seeping into the old stone floor. His stomach twisted. Instinct
told him to turn away, pretend he hadn’t seen. But his feet carried him
forward.
Inside, the air was stale, thick with dust and something
heavier—coppery, metallic. His breath came fast. The interior was stripped
bare, rows of pews long gone, leaving only a hollowed-out space where echoes
clung to the walls. And there, at the front, before the altar, was the body.
A man, kneeling. His hands clasped together, as if in
prayer. His head tilted forward, chin resting against his chest. Blood soaked
the front of his dark robe, spreading outwards in an obscene halo. The throat
was cut so deep that for a moment Samuel thought the head might come loose.
He stumbled back, heart pounding. That was when he saw the
words.
Scrawled across the altar in what could only be blood:
“Behold, a pale horse.”
Samuel turned and ran, lungs burning, the words following
him into the breaking dawn.
DI Alex Callaghan was nursing his first coffee of the day
when the call came through.
A body in an abandoned church. Possible religious symbolism.
Possible murder.
By the time he arrived at St. Olave’s, the sun had clawed
its way over the rooftops, casting long shadows through the city. The forensics
team was already there, and a couple of uniformed officers were keeping the
growing crowd at bay. A morning murder scene always attracted attention—early
commuters pausing, phones raised, taking in the grim spectacle as if it were
just another part of the city’s entertainment.
Callaghan ducked under the tape, his eyes adjusting to the
gloom inside. The smell hit first—blood and something else, something old and
musty, the scent of long-forgotten places.
“Jogger found him about an hour ago,” said DS Rachel Ng,
appearing at his side. She handed him a pair of gloves. “Says the door was
already open when he ran past. Didn’t see anyone else around.”
Callaghan stepped forward, taking in the scene. The victim’s
posture was unsettling—posed, deliberate. Not a frenzied attack. A message,
then.
“Any ID?”
“No wallet, no phone. Nothing in his pockets except an old
train ticket. We’re running prints.”
Callaghan crouched down, studying the face. Pale.
Mid-forties, maybe. Dark hair, neatly trimmed. The black robe made him think of
a priest, but there was something off about it. Not quite a cassock. He noted
the thick fabric, the slight shimmer of embroidery.
Then there was the message on the altar.
“‘Behold, a pale horse,’” he murmured.
“Revelation,” said Ng.
Callaghan glanced at her.
“My mum dragged me to church when I was a kid,” she added.
“It’s the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse. Death rides a pale horse.”
A chill ran through him. He’d worked murders before, plenty
of them. But this—this felt different.
“Any sign of forced entry?”
“No. Door was open when the jogger found it.”
“Which means the killer either had a key, or someone let
them in.”
Ng nodded. “Or maybe they never left.”
The words settled between them like dust in the stale air.
Callaghan exhaled slowly. He didn’t like this. He didn’t
like the theatrics. And he definitely didn’t like the feeling creeping into his
gut—that this was just the beginning.
Chapter 2: The Two Witnesses
Revd Dr John Woodford had seen his share of strange things
in London, but he had never expected to be woken by the police.
The knock at the door came just after seven, sharp and
insistent, rattling the glass panel of the manse’s Victorian front door. He had
been awake already, sitting in his study with a cup of tea, picking over notes
for Sunday’s sermon. Something about the beat of the knock made him put the mug
down carefully before he went to answer.
The man on his doorstep looked like he hadn’t slept.
“Reverend Woodford?”
The voice was rough, weary. The man in the long
coat—Detective Inspector, judging by the ID he flashed—had the look of someone
who carried too much weight on his shoulders. Mid-forties, unshaven, dark hair
flecked with grey at the temples. A face that had spent too much time in harsh
lighting.
“Yes,” Woodford said. “And you are?”
“DI Alex Callaghan. Met Police.” He hesitated, then added,
“We could use your help.”
Woodford raised an eyebrow. He had dealt with police
before—mostly for pastoral matters, visiting parishioners who had got
themselves into trouble, occasionally being called in to mediate some dispute.
But he sensed this was different.
“Come in,” he said, stepping aside.
Callaghan took in the hallway—the rows of books lining the
walls, the worn wooden floors—before following him into the study. Woodford
gestured to a chair, but the detective remained standing.
“I assume this is about something theological?”
Callaghan exhaled, then reached into his coat pocket and
pulled out a photograph. He held it out. “This was found at a crime scene this
morning.”
Woodford took the picture.
A church interior. The victim kneeling, hands clasped in a
grotesque imitation of prayer. Blood pooled beneath him. But it was the writing
on the altar that made Woodford’s breath catch.
“Behold, a pale horse.”
He set the photograph down carefully. “Revelation 6:8.”
Callaghan nodded. “That’s what my sergeant told me.”
Woodford glanced up. “Then why are you here?”
Callaghan sighed and ran a hand over his face. “Look, I’ll
be honest—I don’t like cases like this. Theatrical murders, religious messages.
It attracts the wrong kind of attention. But I need to know what we’re dealing
with. Is this some kind of cult thing? A lone fanatic? Or just someone using
biblical language to be dramatic?”
Woodford leaned back, considering. “It could be any of
those. The Book of Revelation has been misused in all sorts of ways. End-times
fanatics, conspiracy theorists. But it’s also deeply political. If someone is
invoking it, they may be trying to send a message.”
Callaghan rubbed his jaw. “That’s what I was afraid of.”
Woodford tapped the photograph. “Who was he?”
“No ID yet,” Callaghan admitted. “Mid-forties. Dark robes.
Not a priest, but dressed like one. You recognise the clothing?”
Woodford frowned, studying the image again. “It’s not
standard clerical dress, but it does look… deliberate. Ritualistic, even.” He
paused. “Where was this taken?”
“St. Olave’s. Near Smithfield Market.”
That gave Woodford pause. “A strange place for a murder.”
Callaghan arched an eyebrow. “Why?”
“It hasn’t been used in years. Not since the diocese shut it
down. But it’s an old church. A very old church. It survived the Great Fire.
Has a history.”
Callaghan’s eyes narrowed. “What kind of history?”
Woodford hesitated, rubbing his chin. “Legends, mostly.
Supposedly, during the Reformation, it was a meeting place for radicals. In the
seventeenth century, there were whispers about clandestine gatherings. Some
said it had links to the Freemasons. In the twentieth century, a priest went
missing from there—vanished without a trace.”
Callaghan exhaled. “So it attracts stories.”
“Churches like St. Olave’s always do.”
Callaghan watched him carefully. “Do you think the
message—the pale horse—has anything to do with the church’s history?”
Woodford shook his head. “Not necessarily. But it does
suggest that whoever wrote it understands apocalyptic imagery. And that’s where
you need to be careful.”
Callaghan folded his arms. “How so?”
Woodford met his gaze. “Apocalypse doesn’t mean the end of
the world. Not in the way people think. It means an unveiling. A revelation of
truth. If someone is invoking it, they may be trying to expose something—or
they believe something is being hidden.”
Callaghan was silent for a moment. Then he picked up the
photograph and tucked it back into his pocket. “I’d like you to come with me.
See the scene yourself.”
Woodford hesitated. “You think I can help?”
“I think,” Callaghan said, “that whoever did this wants
people to understand their message. And I need someone who can read between the
lines.”
Woodford exhaled, then nodded. “Let me get my coat.”
Chapter 3: The Dead Were Judged According to What They Had Done
The dead man had a name.
It came through just after midday—fingerprint match,
courtesy of the databases at New Scotland Yard. Callaghan had been nursing a
lukewarm coffee in his office, flipping through his notes, when the message
pinged onto his screen. He sat up, rereading the name. Something about it
tugged at a distant memory.
Dr Edward Henshaw.
Age forty-six. Former lecturer in theology at King’s College
London. Left academia five years ago. No criminal record. No known next of kin.
Callaghan frowned. He’d expected something more dramatic—a
priest defrocked in disgrace, a radical preacher, a fringe lunatic with a
manifesto. Instead, he had an ex-academic who had seemingly dropped off the
radar.
He reached for his phone.
Revd Dr John Woodford had spent the last hour digging
through old records on St. Olave’s, but the news from Callaghan stopped him in
his tracks.
“Edward Henshaw?” Woodford repeated.
“You knew him?”
Woodford hesitated. “I knew of him. He was a rising star in
theology about a decade ago. Specialised in apocalyptic literature—Revelation,
Daniel, Enochic texts. He had a reputation for being… controversial.”
“How so?”
Woodford leaned back in his chair. “He believed Revelation
wasn’t just a text about past resistance or future hope, but an active guide
for uncovering corruption in the present. He argued that every age has its own
‘Beast,’ its own empire of oppression that needs unmasking. His work was
admired by some, but others thought he was reckless, that he blurred the line
between theology and conspiracy.”
Callaghan made a note. “Why did he leave King’s?”
“That, I don’t know.” Woodford frowned. “But I remember the
rumours. There was talk that he had become obsessed with something—some theory
about hidden messages in the text. Some thought he had a breakdown.”
Callaghan exhaled. He had seen it before—brilliant minds
pushing themselves too far, slipping from research into fixation. “And after he
left?”
“No idea. He disappeared from academic circles. I assumed he
had moved abroad or gone into private research.”
“Well, he turned up in an abandoned church with his throat
cut.”
Woodford didn’t answer immediately. Then he said, “The way
he was posed, the way the message was written—it wasn’t random. Whoever did
this wanted to make a point. And if Henshaw was still chasing after Revelation,
it’s possible he believed he had found something.”
Callaghan rubbed his temples. He hated this—the murky places
where belief and delusion overlapped. “Could he have been involved with a
group?”
“If he was, it wasn’t anything mainstream. But there are
always people drawn to apocalyptic ideas, especially in uncertain times.”
Callaghan sighed. “Alright. I need to find out what Henshaw
was working on. Someone wanted him dead for a reason.”
Woodford hesitated. Then, carefully, he said, “If you want
to understand what he was chasing, you might need to read what he left behind.”
Callaghan glanced at his notes. “And where do you suggest I
start?”
Woodford met his gaze. “His last lectures, still spoken
about by former students but never published. And if you can find it—his final
obsession.”
Chapter 4: Who Is Worthy to Open the Scroll?
Dr Edward Henshaw’s last known address was a flat above an
antiquarian bookshop in Clerkenwell, the kind of place that smelled of old
paper and damp wood, where the dust settled in corners like a second skin.
Callaghan parked up outside, watching as a black cat slinked its way between
the bookshop’s iron railings. The sign above the door read SEVEN SEALS RARE
BOOKS in faded gold lettering. A biblical reference. He wasn’t sure if that was
irony or intent.
Revd Dr John Woodford stood beside him, adjusting the collar
of his coat against the wind. “Seven seals,” he murmured. “Revelation, chapter
five. The sealed scroll that only the Lamb can open.”
Callaghan gave him a sideways glance. “And that means?”
“It depends who you ask,” Woodford replied. “Some say the
scroll represents God’s plan for history, locked away until the right moment.
Others see it as a warning—truth hidden until it’s too late.”
Callaghan exhaled. “I really hope this doesn’t turn into one
of those cases where everyone starts speaking in riddles.”
They pushed open the shop door. A small bell jangled above
them, and the scent of aged paper wrapped around them like a heavy cloak.
Inside, the shop was dimly lit, books crammed into every possible
space—towering shelves, teetering stacks on the floor, glass cases filled with
cracked leather tomes.
From behind the counter, a man in his sixties looked up,
adjusting his wire-rimmed glasses. He had the air of someone who resented
company but tolerated it for the sake of business. “If you’re looking for
anything after 1900, you’re in the wrong place.”
Callaghan stepped forward, flashing his ID. “DI Alex
Callaghan, Met Police. This is Revd Dr John Woodford. We’re here about Edward
Henshaw.”
The man’s expression didn’t change. “Henshaw? Haven’t seen
him in weeks. What’s he done?”
“He’s dead,” Callaghan said bluntly.
That got a reaction. The bookseller stiffened, his fingers
tightening on the counter. “Dead?”
“Murdered,” Callaghan confirmed. “We’re trying to figure out
why. How well did you know him?”
The man hesitated, then sighed. “Name’s Malcolm Fry. I own
the shop. Henshaw rented the flat upstairs. Paid in cash, kept to himself.
Brilliant mind, but… odd.”
Woodford leaned in. “Odd how?”
Fry adjusted his glasses. “He had these obsessions. Thought
he was onto something big, something hidden in ancient texts. Spent hours down
here, poring over obscure manuscripts. Kept talking about connections—secrets
buried in plain sight. Sounded like nonsense to me.”
Callaghan felt the beginnings of a headache. “What kind of
secrets?”
Fry scratched his beard. “Said Revelation wasn’t just a
prophecy—it was a cipher. Thought it pointed to something happening now, in our
time.”
Woodford frowned. “Did he ever say what?”
Fry hesitated. “Something about corruption. The Beast. He
said the Beast wasn’t a single thing but a system, a network of power hidden
behind religious symbols.”
Callaghan sighed. “Great. So he went full conspiracy
theorist.”
Fry shook his head. “Not just theory. He said he had proof.”
Woodford and Callaghan exchanged glances.
Callaghan straightened. “We need to see his flat.”
Fry hesitated. “Look, I don’t know if—”
“This is a murder investigation,” Callaghan interrupted.
“Either you let us up, or I get a warrant and come back with a lot less
patience.”
Fry huffed but fished out a key. “Third floor. Be
careful—it’s a mess.”
They climbed the narrow staircase, the wood creaking beneath
their steps. When Callaghan unlocked the door, the air inside was stale, thick
with the smell of books, unwashed clothes, and burnt coffee. The room was
chaos—papers scattered across every surface, books stacked in precarious
towers, half-drunk mugs of tea forming their own archaeological layers.
And then there was the wall.
A huge corkboard dominated one side of the room, covered in
pinned pages, scribbled notes, and red string connecting seemingly random
points.
Callaghan groaned. “Of course. The classic conspiracy
board.”
Woodford moved closer, eyes scanning the mess of newspaper
clippings and biblical references. He reached out and plucked a single page
from the centre. It was an old engraving—a medieval depiction of the Lamb
opening the sealed scroll, angels watching from the edges. But someone had
scrawled something in the margins, in heavy, frantic ink.
“The scroll is open. The seals are broken. They have already
begun.”
Callaghan exhaled sharply. “What the hell does that mean?”
Woodford turned to him, the paper still in his hand. His
voice was quiet but certain.
“It means Edward Henshaw believed the apocalypse wasn’t
coming. He thought it was already here.”
Chapter 5: The Second Seal
The night air was sharp as Callaghan stepped out of
Henshaw’s flat, the stale scent of old paper still clinging to his clothes. The
street was quiet, save for the distant hum of traffic from Clerkenwell Road.
Revd Dr John Woodford stood beside him, still holding the page he had pulled
from Henshaw’s board.
“The second seal,” Woodford murmured.
Callaghan shot him a tired look. “You want to explain that
before I start losing patience?”
Woodford turned the page over in his hands. “Revelation
6:3-4. ‘When the Lamb opened the second seal, I heard the second living
creature say, “Come!” Then another horse came out, a fiery red one. Its rider
was given power to take peace from the earth and to make people slay each
other.’”
Callaghan exhaled, rubbing his temples. “So we had a pale
horse at the crime scene, and now this.”
“Death, then war,” Woodford said grimly.
Callaghan shook his head. “I don’t believe in prophecy.”
Woodford glanced at him. “Neither do I. But someone clearly
does, and they think they’re following a pattern.”
Callaghan’s phone buzzed. He pulled it from his coat pocket
and glanced at the screen. A message from the station.
Another body found.
He swore under his breath. “I don’t have time for riddles,
Reverend.”
Woodford watched him carefully. “Where?”
Callaghan glanced back at the message. “Victoria Embankment.
Near Temple Church.”
Woodford’s expression darkened. “The Knights Templar.”
Callaghan gave him a look. “Now what?”
Woodford sighed. “Temple Church has long been linked to
apocalyptic theories. The Templars were accused of heresy in the Middle Ages.
Some believed they had secret knowledge—hidden truths about the end of days.”
Callaghan was already walking towards the car. “Well, let’s
hope this truth isn’t written in blood.”
The scene at Victoria Embankment was grim. Police tape
cordoned off the riverside walkway, blue lights flickering against the damp
pavement. Callaghan ducked under the tape, flashing his ID to the uniformed
officers. Woodford followed, his breath visible in the cold night air.
The body lay sprawled on the stone steps leading down to the
Thames. A man in his fifties, dressed in a dark suit, his shirt stained
crimson. His throat had been cut, just like Henshaw.
But it was the symbol carved into his forehead that made
Woodford’s stomach twist.
A sword.
Callaghan crouched beside the forensic examiner. “Tell me
something useful, Jackson.”
Dr Olivia Jackson barely glanced up from her work. “Male,
early fifties. Killed within the last few hours. Same precision as your last
victim—clean, controlled. No sign of struggle.”
Callaghan nodded at the marking on the man’s forehead. “And
that?”
Jackson exhaled. “Deep incision, made post-mortem. It’s not
random.”
Woodford crouched beside them. “The second rider carries a
sword. He is given power to take peace from the earth.”
Callaghan’s jaw tightened. “So this is war.”
Woodford looked at the body again. “Who is he?”
Callaghan turned to one of the uniformed officers. “ID?”
The officer handed him a wallet. Callaghan flipped it open,
scanned the driver’s licence, and let out a low whistle.
“Sir David Langley.”
Woodford frowned. “Should I know that name?”
Callaghan looked grim. “Former cabinet minister. Defence and
security. He was on the board of a few… sensitive committees.”
Woodford exhaled. “That doesn’t seem random.”
“No,” Callaghan muttered. “No, it doesn’t.”
He stood, glancing at the Thames, the black water lapping
against the stone steps. Two bodies, two messages, two seals broken.
And if whoever was behind this was following the text to the
letter, then the worst was yet to come.
Chapter 6: Do Not Be Afraid, Only Believe
The scent of damp stone and candle wax clung to the air
inside Temple Church. The dim light from the high, arched windows barely
touched the cold flagstones, where centuries of footsteps had worn the surface
smooth. Woodford walked slowly, his footsteps echoing in the vast space.
Callaghan followed a few paces behind, hands in the pockets of his coat.
“This place always feels like it remembers things,” Woodford
murmured.
Callaghan shot him a look. “I’d rather deal with the
living.”
They had come straight from the murder scene. Sir David
Langley’s body was still being examined, but the meaning of the sword carved
into his forehead was hard to ignore. War. The breaking of the second seal. And
now, the location—the ancient church of the Knights Templar.
A priest emerged from the shadows near the altar, his
cassock swaying as he moved. He was an older man, white-haired, with sharp,
knowing eyes.
“I heard about the body,” he said without preamble. “And I
assume you’re here because you think there’s a connection.”
Callaghan stepped forward. “DI Alex Callaghan, Met Police.
This is Revd Dr John Woodford.”
The priest studied them both. “Father Michael Harrington.
I’m the custodian here. And yes, I know exactly what you’re thinking.”
Woodford raised an eyebrow. “Do you?”
Harrington sighed. “You think the murder was staged to
invoke the Templars—an order falsely accused of heresy, conspiracy, secret
knowledge. And now, you’re wondering if this murder is linked to some
apocalyptic cult.”
Callaghan glanced at Woodford. “I like him. Saves me the
trouble of asking.”
Woodford turned to Harrington. “Have you had any unusual
visitors recently?”
Harrington hesitated. “We get all sorts. Conspiracy
theorists, amateur historians, the occasional extremist looking for hidden
knowledge that doesn’t exist. But now that you ask—” He gestured for them to
follow and led them towards a small office off the main nave. He opened a desk
drawer and pulled out a visitor log.
“This man,” Harrington said, pointing to a name scrawled in
the register.
Callaghan leaned in. Edward Henshaw.
Woodford’s stomach tightened. “When was this?”
“Two weeks ago.” Harrington tapped the page. “He came asking
about the Templars’ role in interpreting Revelation. Said he was following a
thread.”
Callaghan folded his arms. “What thread?”
Harrington sighed. “He wouldn’t say exactly. But he was
convinced there was something hidden—something buried in history that pointed
to corruption in the present.”
Woodford nodded slowly. “He thought the Beast wasn’t just a
symbol, but something real. A system of power.”
Harrington hesitated, then reached into the drawer again and
pulled out a slip of paper. “He left this behind.”
Woodford took it and read the scrawled writing aloud.
“The Lamb opens the scroll—but the Beast controls the
seals.”
Callaghan frowned. “What does that mean?”
Woodford exhaled. “I don’t know yet. But I think Henshaw
believed he was onto something dangerous.”
Callaghan looked at the slip of paper again, then at
Woodford. “Dangerous enough to get him killed?”
Woodford met his gaze. “Or dangerous enough to start a war.”
Chapter 7: The Beast from the Deep
The Thames was black and restless under the glow of the
streetlights, waves slapping against the embankment wall like a slow, steady
heartbeat. Woodford stood by the railing, his breath clouding in the cold night
air. Behind him, Callaghan leaned against the bonnet of his car, arms folded,
watching the city as if it might confess something.
“You look like a man who believes in omens,” Callaghan
muttered.
Woodford half-smiled. “I believe in patterns.”
Callaghan exhaled. “So let’s talk about patterns. Two
murders. Both victims had their throats cut. Both had bloody symbols from the
book of Revelation—first the pale horse, then the sword. Both were men of
influence—one an academic, the other a politician. And both, apparently, had
some connection to a biblical prophecy about the end of the world.”
Woodford nodded. “The opening of the seals in Revelation is
a sequence. If someone is following a pattern inspired by the apocalypse…”
Callaghan pushed off the car and ran a hand through his
hair. “Then the next murder is inevitable.”
They both stood in silence, the city stretching around them.
Eventually, Woodford spoke. “What do you know about
Langley’s past?”
Callaghan sighed. “The official story? A lifetime in defence
and intelligence. Served as an MP, then got a cushy position advising on
national security. But I made some calls. Off the record, he was part of a
group that met in private—former politicians, military, financial elites.
Nothing illegal, but very exclusive.”
Woodford frowned. “What kind of group?”
“Something called The Order of the Deep.”
Woodford felt a chill creep up his spine. “The Beast from
the Deep.”
Callaghan gave him a sideways look. “What?”
Woodford turned to face him. “Revelation 13. ‘Then I saw a
beast rising out of the sea. It had ten horns and seven heads, with blasphemous
names written upon them.’”
Callaghan sighed. “And you think this is connected?”
Woodford folded his arms. “You said Langley was part of an
elite group. In Revelation, the Beast from the Deep represents corrupt
power—the forces behind empire, oppression, and control. If Henshaw was
investigating something, if he believed there was a modern equivalent—”
Callaghan finished the thought. “—then maybe someone killed
him to shut him up.”
A gust of wind whipped off the river. Callaghan checked his
watch. “We need to move. I’ve got a contact in intelligence who might know more
about Langley’s little club. You coming?”
Woodford hesitated, then nodded. “I’m coming.”
As they walked towards the car, neither of them noticed the
figure standing in the shadows beneath a nearby bridge, watching them with
unblinking eyes.
Chapter 8: The Dragon Stood on the Shore of the Sea
The coffee shop was tucked into a side street near
Westminster, the kind of place frequented by civil servants who preferred their
meetings off the record. Dim lighting, discreet staff, and an espresso machine
that hissed like a gas leak. Callaghan and Woodford sat in a booth at the back,
waiting.
“He’ll come,” Callaghan muttered, stirring his coffee with
unnecessary force.
Woodford watched him. “You trust this contact?”
Callaghan scoffed. “No. But he likes the sound of his own
voice, and he owes me.”
The door opened, letting in a burst of cold air. A man in a
navy overcoat strode in, scanned the room, and spotted them. He was
mid-fifties, lean, with the sharp, slightly haunted look of someone who had
spent his life knowing things he wasn’t supposed to.
He slid into the booth opposite. “Inspector.” His eyes
flicked to Woodford. “And the reverend.”
Woodford inclined his head. “You have us at a disadvantage,
Mr…?”
The man smirked. “Let’s not use names.”
Callaghan leaned forward. “Tell me about The Order of the
Deep.”
The man exhaled through his nose, as if debating how much to
say. “It’s not an order. It’s a network. High-level figures—government,
military, finance—who believe in continuity of power. They meet, they share
information, they shape outcomes.”
“Shape outcomes?” Woodford repeated. “That’s a polite way of
saying manipulate events.”
The man gave him a cool look. “They’d call it stability.”
Callaghan’s jaw tightened. “Langley was one of them.”
The man nodded. “And Henshaw was asking the wrong questions.
He wasn’t some crank. He had sources, connections. He believed there was a
direct line between The Order and certain global crises—wars, financial
crashes, political upheaval. He thought Revelation wasn’t just metaphor. He
thought it was coded history, repeating itself.”
Woodford exhaled. “And he tried to prove it.”
The man shrugged. “Maybe he got too close. Maybe he just
pissed off the wrong people.”
Callaghan drummed his fingers on the table. “And now
Langley’s dead too.”
The man hesitated, then leaned in slightly. “Then you should
be asking yourself—who benefits from these deaths?”
Woodford frowned. “Are you saying it’s an inside job?
Someone in The Order cleaning house?”
The man didn’t answer. Instead, he reached into his coat and
slid a folded piece of paper across the table. “This is the next name on
Henshaw’s research list.”
Callaghan took it and unfolded it. His expression darkened.
Woodford read over his shoulder.
Dr Miriam Leclerc. Historian. Specialises in apocalyptic
movements and political cults.
Callaghan swore under his breath. “If someone is working
their way through this list—”
Woodford finished the thought. “—she’s in danger.”
The man in the coat stood. “Then I suggest you move
quickly.”
He walked out without another word, leaving Callaghan and
Woodford staring at the name on the page.
Somewhere out there, the third seal was waiting to be
broken.
Chapter 9: Behold a Black Horse
Dr Miriam Leclerc lived in a bookshop. Or at least, that was
the impression Woodford got as he stepped into the narrow, overstuffed flat in
Bloomsbury. The air smelled of old paper, dust, and candle wax, and every
surface—chairs, tables, even the floor—was piled high with books.
“Apologies for the mess,” Leclerc said, leading them inside.
She was in her early sixties, sharp-eyed and energetic, her silver hair tied
back in a loose bun. “I tell myself I’ll get organised, but knowledge refuses
to be tamed.”
Woodford smiled. “A theologian’s burden.”
Callaghan, less patient, got straight to the point. “Dr
Leclerc, you were on Edward Henshaw’s research list. He and Sir David Langley
are both dead. We think they were murdered by someone following the imagery of
the Book of Revelation.”
Leclerc’s expression didn’t change, but she folded her arms.
“And you think I might be next?”
Callaghan nodded. “Depends what Henshaw wanted from you.”
She sighed, stepping over a stack of books and retrieving a
notepad from a desk. “Henshaw came to see me a few weeks ago. He wanted to know
about historical movements that saw Revelation as a blueprint for real-world
events—people who believed the Four Horsemen weren’t just symbols, but forces
acting in history.”
Woodford frowned. “Did he say why?”
Leclerc flipped through her notes. “He was convinced someone
was using Revelation as a guide. Not predicting the future, but creating
it—shaping world events to fit the prophecy. He thought The Order of the Deep
was involved.”
Callaghan exchanged a glance with Woodford. “Did he mention
names?”
She shook her head. “Only Langley. Said Langley was ‘part of
the machinery.’”
Woodford looked around the room, his eyes settling on an
open book on her desk. A 17th-century engraving of the Four Horsemen of the
Apocalypse stared back at him. He picked it up. “The third seal,” he murmured.
Leclerc nodded. “The black horse. Famine.”
Callaghan rubbed his face. “So what, the next victim starves
to death?”
Leclerc hesitated. “Not necessarily. In Revelation, famine
is economic as much as physical. The rider carries a set of scales—measuring
out grain at extortionate prices. It’s about control over resources.”
Woodford felt the pieces shift in his mind. “Langley was
defence and security. Who controls the economy?”
Leclerc tapped her fingers on her desk. “Henshaw was also
looking into financial institutions—banks, hedge funds, global trade networks.
He believed The Order wasn’t just an old boys’ club, but a group manipulating
markets, keeping the balance of power in their favour.”
Callaghan’s phone buzzed. He checked the message and swore.
“Another body?” Woodford asked.
Callaghan’s jaw tightened. “Not yet. But there’s been an
attack at the London Stock Exchange.”
Woodford felt a chill settle in his chest.
The third seal had been broken.
Chapter 10: A Measure of Wheat
The London Stock Exchange was in chaos. Red and blue lights
flashed against the glass and steel of the building as police officers held
back the press. Traders and staff huddled in clusters on the pavement, their
suits rumpled, their faces pale. A few still clutched their phones, talking
urgently into headsets, as if the world might right itself if only they stayed
connected.
Callaghan flashed his badge, and the uniformed officer at
the cordon waved them through. Woodford followed, the weight of Revelation
heavy on his mind.
Inside, the air smelled of burnt plastic and something
acrid—tear gas, maybe. Shattered glass crunched underfoot as they entered the
main trading floor, where the huge electronic screens flickered with red
downward arrows. A symbol of the world’s pulse, now panicked.
A tall man in a navy suit strode towards them, his
expression tight with controlled anger.
“DI Callaghan?”
Callaghan nodded. “And this is Revd Dr John Woodford.”
The man barely glanced at Woodford. “Elliot Grayson. Chief
of Security.”
“What happened?” Callaghan asked.
Grayson exhaled sharply. “An unauthorised broadcast was made
over the internal announcement system. Some kind of manifesto, quoting
scripture. Then the main display screens were hijacked—numbers replaced with an
image.”
Woodford already knew what it would be. “A set of scales.”
Grayson blinked. “How the hell did you know that?”
Callaghan shot Woodford a look, then turned back to Grayson.
“What did the broadcast say?”
Grayson pulled out his phone and tapped the screen. A
distorted voice filled the air, electronic and hollow:
“A measure of wheat for a denarius, and three measures of
barley for a denarius, but do not harm the oil and the wine.”
A pause. Then the voice returned, lower now, almost a growl.
“The balance has been tipped. Those who feast while others
starve will answer for their crimes.”
Woodford felt the words settle in his gut like a weight.
“It’s a direct quote from Revelation 6:6,” he murmured. “A warning about
economic injustice. But the phrase about oil and wine suggests the rich will be
untouched while the poor suffer.”
Callaghan sighed. “So this isn’t just about money. It’s
about power.”
Grayson scrolled down his phone. “It gets worse. Moments
after the message, a major hedge fund collapsed—Montague Capital. Billions in
assets wiped out in minutes. And their CEO, Matthew Sinclair, is missing.”
Woodford turned to Callaghan. “If the pattern holds, he
won’t be missing for long.”
Callaghan nodded grimly. “Then we’d better find him before
the killer does.”
Chapter 11: A pair of scales
The car sped through the darkened streets of London,
Callaghan gripping the wheel with the kind of tension that suggested he’d
rather be punching something. Woodford sat in the passenger seat, replaying the
stock exchange attack in his mind. The black horse had arrived—famine, economic
ruin, the scales of power tilting violently. And now Matthew Sinclair, the man
at the centre of it, had vanished.
Callaghan’s phone buzzed. He put it on speaker.
“DI Callaghan.”
A woman’s voice, clipped and efficient. “Sir, we’ve traced
Sinclair’s last known location. His car was abandoned in an underground car
park near Tower Hill. No sign of him, but CCTV shows he entered on foot and
never came out.”
Callaghan’s eyes narrowed. “Send me the footage.”
A moment later, his phone screen lit up. He handed it to
Woodford as he navigated through traffic. The grainy footage showed Sinclair
stepping into the car park—tall, suited, moving quickly. He looked over his
shoulder once, then disappeared into the shadows.
“Was he running?” Woodford asked.
Callaghan shook his head. “No. But he knew he was being
followed.”
The footage continued. A minute later, another figure
entered—hooded, slow-moving. Their face was hidden, but something about the
deliberate way they walked sent a chill through Woodford.
The figure followed Sinclair into the darkness.
They never came back out.
Woodford turned to Callaghan. “How does someone vanish in a
locked car park?”
Callaghan grimaced. “Let’s find out.”
The car park smelled of damp concrete and petrol fumes. A
single fluorescent light flickered overhead as Callaghan and Woodford stepped
past the police tape.
A forensics officer looked up from dusting a car door. “No
body. No sign of struggle. But we found this.”
She handed Callaghan a small, square object. A playing card.
Woodford leaned in. The design was hand-drawn—black ink on
white card. A pair of scales, unbalanced. Below it, a single word was written
in careful, looping script:
JUSTICE.
Callaghan swore. “This isn’t just a killer. It’s a crusade.”
Woodford exhaled. “The third seal is broken. And Sinclair is
either dead… or about to be.”
A shout echoed from the far end of the car park. An officer
waved them over.
Callaghan and Woodford hurried across the concrete. The
officer pointed at a security door, slightly ajar. “Wasn’t like this before.”
Callaghan pushed it open. Stairs led downward, into
darkness.
A basement.
Woodford felt his stomach tighten. “If he’s down there…”
Callaghan drew his torch, clicked it on. “Let’s go.”
They stepped into the shadows, descending into whatever
waited below.
Chapter 12: The Pit
The stairwell smelled of damp stone and stale air, the kind
of underground space that London hid beneath its surface—forgotten vaults,
abandoned tunnels, old war bunkers repurposed and then neglected.
Callaghan led the way, torch beam cutting through the
darkness. Woodford followed, his breath shallow, the weight of something unseen
pressing in. The hum of the city above was gone now, replaced by the muffled
drip of water and the scuff of their shoes on the stairs.
At the bottom, a rusted metal door stood slightly ajar.
Callaghan pushed it open with his shoulder.
The room beyond was small, lined with crumbling brick, the
ceiling low. In the centre stood a chair. And in the chair sat Matthew
Sinclair.
Woodford inhaled sharply.
Sinclair’s hands were tied behind him. His head slumped
forward, chin resting on his chest. He was alive—just. His breath came in
shallow gasps, and his suit, once immaculate, was stained with sweat and dirt.
Callaghan stepped forward. “Sinclair?”
The man groaned, shifting slightly.
Woodford moved quickly, crouching beside him. “We need to
get him out of here.”
Callaghan scanned the room. “Someone left him here for us to
find.”
On the floor in front of the chair, something had been
painted in thick, black strokes. Woodford’s stomach twisted as he read the
words:
A MEASURE OF WHEAT FOR A DENARIUS.
Beneath it, a set of scales had been drawn. But unlike the
card left in the car park, these were tipped violently to one side.
Woodford exhaled. “This wasn’t just a warning. This was a
trial.”
Sinclair stirred, lifting his head slightly. His eyes,
bloodshot and unfocused, locked onto Woodford.
“They showed me,” he whispered. His voice was hoarse,
cracked. “They showed me what I’d done.”
Callaghan knelt beside him. “Who did this to you?”
Sinclair shuddered, as if the memory itself was painful.
“They made me see.”
Woodford frowned. “See what?”
Sinclair’s breathing quickened. “The hunger. The ones who
don’t eat. I built my fortune on scarcity—on making the poor choose between
bread and shelter.” His eyes were wide now, feverish. “And they showed me what
that meant.”
Woodford exchanged a look with Callaghan.
Callaghan exhaled sharply. “Someone’s making their victims
confess. Before they kill them.”
Sinclair flinched. “No—no, I was dead. I should be dead. But
they let me go.”
Woodford’s brow furrowed. “Why?”
Sinclair’s gaze darted between them. “Because the horseman
rides for someone else now.”
A shiver ran down Woodford’s spine.
Callaghan stood, pulling out his radio. “We need medics down
here. And I want a full sweep of this place—whoever left him here might still
be watching.”
Woodford placed a steadying hand on Sinclair’s shoulder.
“Who are they going after next?”
Sinclair let out a trembling breath.
“The one who profits from the famine.”
Woodford felt the weight of the words settle like a stone in
his chest.
Callaghan’s radio crackled. “Sir—we’ve got something. A
message. Just went live across financial news networks.”
Callaghan grabbed the radio. “What message?”
A pause. Then the officer read it aloud.
“He who gathers riches while others starve will be judged.
The balance will be restored.”
Callaghan and Woodford locked eyes.
The next victim was already marked.
And time was running out.
Chapter 13: Woe, Woe, O Great City
The offices of Vanguard Holdings sat high above the city,
all glass and steel, a temple to wealth built in a city where poverty lurked
just beneath the surface. Callaghan strode through the marble lobby, Woodford
at his side, their footsteps sharp against the polished floor.
At the reception desk, a young man in a tailored suit
glanced up. “Can I help you?”
Callaghan flashed his badge. “DI Callaghan, Met Police. We
need to see Richard Sutherland. Now.”
The receptionist hesitated. “Mr Sutherland is in a meeting.”
Callaghan’s expression darkened. “Not anymore, he isn’t.”
A moment later, they were being led through sleek glass
corridors to a private boardroom. Inside, a half-dozen men in expensive suits
sat around a long table. At the head, Richard Sutherland—CEO of Vanguard, one
of the most powerful financial figures in London.
Sutherland barely looked up as they entered. “I hope this is
important.”
Callaghan pulled out a chair and sat down without asking.
“I’d say a murder investigation qualifies.”
That got Sutherland’s attention. He closed his laptop and
leaned back. “What murder?”
Woodford studied him. Late fifties, tanned, silver-haired,
the kind of man who had never known hunger, never had to count the cost of a
meal.
Callaghan didn’t waste time. “You’re on a killer’s list, Mr
Sutherland. They’re following the Book of Revelation, and you fit the next
seal.”
Sutherland smirked. “I don’t put much stock in religious
fairy tales.”
Woodford leaned forward. “Then let me put it another way.
You profit when the price of food rises. You trade in scarcity. And now someone
has judged you for it.”
Sutherland’s smirk faded. “I don’t know what you’re talking
about.”
Callaghan slid a phone across the table, showing the latest
message broadcast across financial networks.
“He who gathers riches while others starve will be judged.
The balance will be restored.”
Sutherland’s face tightened. “So some lunatic is ranting
about economics. What’s new?”
Woodford folded his arms. “Sir David Langley dismissed the
warnings too. He’s dead now.”
Callaghan leaned in. “And Sinclair was lucky to survive.”
Sutherland exhaled through his nose. “I have security.”
Callaghan gave a humourless smile. “So did the London Stock
Exchange.”
A flicker of something passed over Sutherland’s face.
“Tell us about The Order of the Deep,” Woodford said
quietly.
Sutherland’s expression closed off. “I don’t know what
you’re talking about.”
Callaghan sighed. “That’s the second time you’ve said that.
And I don’t believe you.”
Sutherland stood. “I have nothing more to say. If I need
police protection, I’ll pay for better than the Met.”
Callaghan rose slowly, his eyes locked on Sutherland’s.
“Just don’t say we didn’t warn you.”
As they turned to leave, Woodford paused. His gaze landed on
the polished conference table—where someone had left a single white card.
A hand-drawn image.
A set of scales.
Tipped violently to one side.
Beneath it, a single word in elegant script:
WEIGHED.
Woodford’s breath hitched. “Callaghan.”
Callaghan followed his gaze.
Sutherland frowned. “What—”
Then the lights flickered.
A low thunk echoed through the room.
And the screaming started.
Chapter 14: The Mystery of the Woman
The screaming came from beyond the glass walls of the
boardroom. Callaghan was already moving, shoving the door open, Woodford close
behind.
The Vanguard offices had transformed in an instant. Phones
lay abandoned, chairs overturned. People were running—some towards the exits,
others simply paralysed by fear.
Then Woodford saw it.
Across the far wall, the giant digital stock ticker—usually
a relentless scroll of figures—had been hijacked. The numbers were gone. In
their place, a single sentence pulsed in burning red text:
YOU HAVE BEEN WEIGHED. YOU HAVE BEEN MEASURED. YOU HAVE BEEN
FOUND WANTING.
A second later, the building plunged into darkness.
A gasp from behind. “What the—” Sutherland’s voice, sharp
with fear.
Emergency lighting kicked in, bathing the room in a sickly
glow. Shadows stretched long and distorted. The boardroom windows reflected
ghostly figures moving beyond them—panicked staff, security pushing through the
chaos.
Then came the sound of metal on metal. A slow, deliberate
clang.
Woodford’s stomach tightened. It was coming from the
corridor.
“Stay here,” Callaghan barked at Sutherland, before striding
into the hallway. Woodford hesitated, then followed.
The Vanguard offices were eerily silent now, save for the
distant wail of alarms. Somewhere, footsteps echoed, deliberate and heavy.
And then they saw it.
At the far end of the corridor, near the lifts, a figure
stood.
Hooded. Motionless. Watching.
In their hand, something gleamed—a long, thin chain, and at
the end of it, an antique set of brass scales.
The scales tipped, tilting sharply.
Woodford’s breath caught. A measure of wheat for a denarius…
“Met Police!” Callaghan bellowed. “Hands where I can see
them!”
The figure didn’t move.
Callaghan took a step closer.
Woodford felt something shift in the air—an unease, a weight
pressing down. A trick of the dim light, perhaps, but for a moment it seemed
the figure’s shadow stretched impossibly long, reaching for them.
Then—
A flash of movement.
The chain snapped forward. Callaghan ducked as the scales
flew through the air, smashing into the glass wall beside him. Shattered
fragments exploded across the corridor.
The figure turned and ran.
“Shit—” Callaghan was after them in an instant, Woodford
following on instinct.
They sprinted through the offices, past overturned chairs
and scattered papers. Staff pressed themselves against the walls, watching in
terror.
The hooded figure burst through the fire escape door. An
alarm screamed.
They took the stairs two at a time, Callaghan right behind
them.
“Stop!”
No response. Only the rapid thud-thud-thud of footsteps on
concrete.
Three flights down, the figure shoved through another
door—out onto a maintenance level. Pipes lined the walls, steam hissing from
somewhere unseen. The floor was slick, the air damp.
Woodford skidded to a stop as Callaghan raised his taser.
“Cornered,” he muttered.
The figure stood before them, breathing hard, their chest
rising and falling.
Then, slowly, they lifted their head.
The hood slipped back just enough to reveal a glimpse of
pale skin, sharp features. A woman—late twenties, maybe early thirties. But it
wasn’t her face that sent a shiver through Woodford.
It was her eyes.
Cold. Measured. Calculating.
She smiled.
And then she moved.
A blur of motion—faster than Woodford expected. She lunged
sideways, grabbing something from her pocket. A canister.
Gas hissed into the air.
Callaghan swore, staggering back, covering his mouth.
Woodford’s vision blurred. His lungs burned.
Through the haze, the last thing he saw was the woman
stepping backward, disappearing into the steam.
Gone.
The weight of the scales still hung in the air.
Chapter 15: The Mark of the Beast
Woodford gasped, his lungs rebelling against the acrid sting
of the gas. His eyes streamed, his vision swimming in a haze of shifting light
and shadow. He clutched the damp wall, steadying himself as the footsteps of
their fugitive faded into the labyrinthine depths of the building.
Callaghan coughed beside him, waving uselessly at the air.
“Bloody hell.” He fumbled for his radio, voice hoarse. “Suspect has fled.
Female, late twenties, possibly early thirties. Hooded. Deployed some kind of
gas—likely chloroacetophenone or pepper spray. I want all exits covered.”
A crackled reply came through. “Acknowledged. Officers en
route.”
Woodford squinted through the dispersing mist. “She was
waiting for us.”
Callaghan wiped his eyes. “No, she was waiting for him.” He
jerked a thumb upward—towards the executive floors. “Sutherland.”
The name carried weight now. It had been on the killer’s
list before, but this was different. This wasn’t just a warning, or a message
scrawled in ink. This was an execution attempt, precise and theatrical. And the
woman—whoever she was—had nearly pulled it off.
Woodford swallowed. “She looked… calm.”
Callaghan nodded grimly. “Like she knew exactly what she was
doing.”
They turned, staggering back through the maintenance
corridors. The gas had settled, dissipated, but a sour chemical tang still
clung to the air. The fire escape door swung loosely on its hinges, the alarm a
distant, nagging wail.
By the time they reached the Vanguard offices again, the
chaos had settled into a tense, uneasy silence. Employees milled about in
hushed groups, whispering. Armed officers had arrived, sweeping the corridors,
but there was no sign of the woman.
Richard Sutherland stood by the boardroom window, staring
out over the London skyline. He didn’t turn when they entered.
“She got away,” Callaghan said flatly.
Sutherland let out a short, mirthless laugh. “Of course she
did.”
Woodford frowned. “Do you know her?”
Sutherland finally turned. His face was pale, the usual
arrogance tempered with something closer to fear.
“I know what she represents.”
Callaghan crossed his arms. “Enlighten us.”
Sutherland hesitated. For the first time, Woodford saw
uncertainty in his expression.
Then, quietly: “Have you ever heard of The Order of the
Deep?”
Woodford exchanged a glance with Callaghan. He had heard the
name before—whispered in obscure theological circles, buried in the footnotes
of conspiracy theories. A group that claimed to be more than a cult, less than
a religion. Their doctrine was esoteric, fragmented, drawing from apocalyptic
texts, economic theory, and something darker—something older than Christianity
itself.
“They believe in a reckoning,” Sutherland continued. “A
restoration of balance. Not in some distant, spiritual sense—but here. Now.
They think the world is out of joint, that wealth has poisoned the scales, and
that someone has to tip them back.”
Woodford felt a chill creep up his spine.
Callaghan exhaled through his nose. “And you’re saying this
woman is one of them?”
Sutherland nodded. “She’s not just one of them. She’s one of
their executioners.”
Woodford’s throat was dry. “You sound like you know a lot
about them.”
Sutherland’s mouth twitched. “You don’t get to my level of
influence without making… certain acquaintances.”
Callaghan’s eyes narrowed. “That a confession?”
Sutherland met his gaze, unreadable. “It’s an
acknowledgment.”
A sharp knock at the door interrupted them. One of
Callaghan’s officers stepped inside, looking grim.
“We’ve found something.”
The security footage was grainy, distorted by the flickering
emergency lights, but it was clear enough.
The woman—hooded, precise in her movements—navigated the
Vanguard corridors with chilling ease. She knew exactly where she was going.
And then, at the very moment the power cut out, she stopped
in front of Sutherland’s office.
She stood there for thirteen seconds.
Not moving. Not speaking. Just waiting.
Then she turned, withdrawing something from her sleeve. A
small, white card.
She placed it carefully on Sutherland’s desk, then walked
away.
Woodford didn’t need to see the front of the card to know
what was on it.
A set of scales.
Callaghan let out a slow breath. “She was never planning to
kill him today.”
Woodford nodded, his stomach tight. “She was marking him.”
Sutherland stared at the screen, his face unreadable. “Which
means I still have time.”
Callaghan turned to him. “For what?”
Sutherland met his gaze. “To make things right.”
Woodford wasn’t sure whether to feel relieved or terrified.
Chapter 16: They Will Weep and Mourn
The ride down to the street was silent. Callaghan, Woodford,
and Sutherland stood in the lift, bathed in sterile white light, the hum of the
machinery the only sound. The businessman’s jaw was tight, his hands clasped in
front of him as though bracing for impact.
Woodford wasn’t fooled by the façade. Sutherland was
rattled. The arrogance was still there, but beneath it—fear. Real, gnawing
fear.
When the lift doors slid open, a blast of cold night air met
them. The street outside Vanguard Holdings was swarming with police. Marked
units idled at the kerb, officers scanning the surrounding buildings for any
sign of the hooded woman. The usual city noise—a symphony of engines, distant
sirens, and murmured conversations—felt muted, subdued.
As they stepped outside, a man in a dark coat broke away
from the cordon and strode towards them.
“DI Callaghan.” The man’s voice was clipped, formal. He was
tall, mid-forties, with a lean build and a military bearing. “Detective Chief
Inspector Paul Morrison. Counter-Terrorism Command.”
Woodford stiffened.
Callaghan folded his arms. “Didn’t realise this was your
jurisdiction.”
Morrison gave a tight smile. “The moment someone starts
targeting high-profile financial figures using religious extremism as a
justification, it becomes our concern.” His eyes flicked to Sutherland. “Mr
Sutherland, we’ve already arranged private security for you.”
Sutherland scoffed. “If they’re as effective as the Met, I
think I’ll pass.”
Callaghan ignored him. “You’ve been tracking this group,
then? The Order of the Deep?”
Morrison didn’t react, but something flickered in his
expression. “We’re aware of them.”
Woodford watched him carefully. That was a bureaucratic
answer, not a real one.
Sutherland exhaled sharply. “They’re not just cranks, are
they?”
Morrison hesitated, then stepped in closer. “They believe in
restoration through judgment. That the world has become unbalanced, and that a
reckoning is necessary.” He glanced at Woodford. “You’re the minister?”
Woodford nodded.
Morrison’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Then you know how
dangerous people can become when they convince themselves they’re carrying out
divine justice.”
Woodford met his gaze. “Justice is one thing. Execution is
another.”
Morrison nodded approvingly. “And they don’t see a
difference.”
Callaghan sighed. “And yet we know sod-all about them. Who
the hell is this woman?”
Morrison studied him for a moment, then reached into his
coat. He produced a single photograph, worn at the edges.
A face stared up at them.
The woman from the Vanguard security footage.
Dark hair, sharp features, pale blue eyes.
“She’s using the name Eva Moreau,” Morrison said. “But
that’s almost certainly an alias.”
Woodford frowned. “And before that?”
Morrison hesitated. “She didn’t exist.”
Sutherland scoffed. “Oh, come on.”
Morrison ignored him. “No birth record. No employment
history. No digital footprint until two years ago. And then—she starts
appearing in circles linked to The Order of the Deep.”
Woodford felt the weight of that. A ghost, moving through
the underworld.
Morrison continued. “She’s precise, disciplined, and
methodical. She doesn’t make mistakes.”
Callaghan let out a breath. “She did today.”
Morrison shook his head. “No, she let you see her. That
wasn’t a mistake. That was a message.”
Woodford felt a chill. “For us? Or for Sutherland?”
Morrison turned to Sutherland. “That depends. How guilty are
you?”
Sutherland’s jaw clenched. “I don’t answer to terrorists.”
Woodford sighed. “Then who do you answer to?”
Sutherland didn’t reply.
Callaghan rolled his shoulders. “We’re not going to catch
her if we don’t understand what she’s after.” He turned to Morrison. “What else
do you know?”
Morrison hesitated. Then: “There’s a meeting. Tonight.”
Woodford’s pulse quickened. “A meeting?”
Morrison nodded. “A gathering of The Order of the Deep.
Underground. It’s invitation-only, location changing at the last minute.”
Callaghan frowned. “How do you know about it?”
Morrison exhaled. “Because we have someone on the inside.”
Woodford stiffened. That changed things.
Callaghan arched a brow. “You’ve infiltrated them?”
Morrison’s jaw tightened. “Something like that.”
Sutherland crossed his arms. “Then you don’t need me, do
you?”
Morrison turned to him. “You’re already marked, Mr
Sutherland. Whether you like it or not, you’re part of this.”
Sutherland was silent.
Woodford stepped forward. “Where is this meeting?”
Morrison studied him. “You’re not a cop.”
“No,” Woodford said. “But I understand Revelation. And if
they’re drawing their inspiration from it, then I might be the closest thing
you have to someone who speaks their language.”
Morrison considered that. Then, slowly, he reached into his
coat again.
This time, he pulled out a phone.
He tapped the screen twice and held it up.
A message, sent an hour ago.
Tonight. 23:30. The Place of Weeping.
Woodford stared at the words.
Callaghan scowled. “That’s meant to mean something?”
Woodford’s voice was quiet.
“Yes.” He swallowed. “I think it does.”
Morrison waited. “Well?”
Woodford exhaled.
“The Place of Weeping,” he murmured. “It’s a reference to
outer darkness. Judgment. But in London…” He trailed off. “There’s only one
place I can think of that fits.”
Callaghan turned to him. “Where?”
Woodford met his gaze.
“The Cross Bones Graveyard.”
Chapter 17: How Long, O Lord?
The night air was thick with moisture, the remnants of
earlier rain clinging to the cracked pavement. Cross Bones Graveyard lay ahead,
an iron gate wrapped in ribbons and handwritten messages, wax-dripped candles
flickering along the fence. It was a place of memory and mourning, a paupers’
graveyard dating back centuries—where the forgotten dead had been cast into the
earth, nameless and unmarked.
Woodford had been here before. He’d stood in the hush of
twilight services, heard the prayers murmured for souls lost to history. But
tonight, the atmosphere was different. Heavy. Charged.
Callaghan pulled his coat tighter as they approached. “This
place always give you the creeps, or just tonight?”
Woodford didn’t answer. He was staring at the gate. A new
offering had been added to the tangle of ribbons—a strip of white cloth, marked
with a single symbol.
Scales.
Sutherland exhaled sharply. “Bloody hell.”
Morrison scanned the perimeter. Two plainclothes officers
lingered at the far end of the street, pretending to be disinterested
pedestrians. He muttered into his radio, confirming positions. “They’re
inside,” he said finally. “My source says they’ve been gathering for the past
hour.”
Woodford nodded, his fingers tightening around the gate.
Cross Bones had no grand entrance—no church, no formal
structure. Just uneven ground and the weight of centuries pressing down. In the
darkness, shapes moved beyond the gate. Candles dotted the earth, their glow
illuminating a small gathering.
A dozen figures, maybe more. Hooded. Silent. Waiting.
Morrison turned to them. “We go in quiet. We observe. We do
not engage unless we have to.”
Sutherland scoffed. “And if they try to kill me?”
Callaghan gave him a dry look. “Then you’ll finally know how
everyone else in the city feels about you.”
Woodford pushed open the gate.
They stepped inside.
The air smelled of damp earth and candle wax. The gathering
stood in a loose circle, their faces mostly hidden. At the centre of the
circle, a single figure stood with hands raised.
Woodford’s breath caught.
Eva Moreau.
She was speaking, her voice low, steady, carrying in the
hush.
“…and the world has weighed them and found them wanting. The
kings of the earth, the merchants, the ones who trade in bodies and souls. The
world mourns for Babylon, but we do not mourn.”
A murmur of agreement rippled through the crowd.
Woodford’s stomach twisted. Revelation 18. The fall of
Babylon.
Moreau’s hands lowered. “Judgment is not distant. It is not
abstract. It is here. It is now. And we are its measure.”
Woodford glanced at Sutherland. The businessman’s jaw was
clenched, but his usual arrogance had been replaced by something closer to
unease.
Callaghan shifted beside him. “We need to move soon.”
Morrison didn’t answer. He was watching Moreau.
She fell silent, then turned slightly. “We have visitors.”
Every hooded head turned.
Woodford felt his pulse hammer.
Moreau smiled faintly. “Reverend.”
The word was soft, but it carried. Woodford forced himself
to stay calm. “You know who I am.”
Moreau tilted her head. “You study Revelation. You
understand.”
Woodford met her gaze. “Understand what?”
“That the world is ending,” she said simply. “Not in fire
from heaven. Not in some distant, cosmic collapse. But in the rot of its own
greed.”
Sutherland let out a short, nervous laugh. “You really think
you’re going to fix that with a few dramatic murders?”
Moreau’s eyes snapped to him. “Not murders. Judgment.”
Callaghan took a step forward. “That’s not your call to
make.”
Moreau’s expression didn’t change. “And yet, here we are.”
There was movement in the crowd. Woodford tensed, realising
too late that they weren’t just an audience. They were disciples.
Morrison moved fast. “Moreau, step away. Now.”
She smiled. “You’re too late.”
A flick of her wrist. A signal.
The candles snuffed out.
The graveyard erupted into chaos.
Woodford was shoved backwards, catching himself against the
rough bark of a tree. Shadows moved in the darkness, figures scattering, some
lunging towards the intruders, others melting away into the city night.
Callaghan swung, catching one assailant in the gut, sending
them sprawling. Morrison barked orders into his radio, the distant shouts of
officers responding.
Woodford’s breath came fast. Where was Moreau?
A blur of movement.
He turned just in time to see her slipping through a break
in the fence.
Woodford didn’t think. He ran.
Out of the graveyard, into the alley beyond. Moreau was
fast, her silhouette barely visible against the night, but Woodford had spent
enough years navigating London’s streets to know the city’s rhythm.
She turned left—bad move. Dead end.
Woodford skidded around the corner just as she stopped
short.
She turned slowly. Her breath was steady.
“You shouldn’t be here, Reverend.”
Woodford’s chest heaved. “Neither should you.”
Moreau studied him. “You think I’m the villain.”
“You’re killing people.”
She shook her head. “I’m restoring balance.”
Woodford took a step closer. “This isn’t balance. This is
vengeance.”
Moreau’s eyes darkened. “And what was Revelation, if not the
promise of vengeance? The prayers of the martyrs, crying out—how long, O Lord?”
Woodford swallowed. “You’re not God.”
A flicker of something—amusement? Sadness? “No,” she said
softly. “But neither are they.”
Distant footsteps pounded against the pavement.
Moreau glanced past him, saw the approaching officers.
She exhaled.
Then, in one swift motion, she pulled something from her
sleeve.
A blade.
Woodford tensed, but she didn’t lunge. She just… held it.
The candlelight from the graveyard glinted against the steel.
A final choice.
Her hand flexed—then the knife clattered to the ground.
The footsteps reached them.
Morrison’s voice rang out. “On your knees. Now.”
Moreau didn’t resist.
She knelt.
The officers surrounded her, weapons drawn, hands moving
fast to secure her wrists.
As they hauled her to her feet, she turned her head
slightly, meeting Woodford’s gaze.
Her voice was quiet.
“Babylon will fall.”
Woodford swallowed.
In that moment, he wasn’t sure if she meant the world.
Or just herself.
Chapter 18: The Woman Rides the Beast
The interview room in Charing Cross Police Station was as
unremarkable as any other. Pale grey walls, a single fluorescent light
overhead, the faint scent of stale coffee and disinfectant. The kind of place
designed to strip away any sense of power or control.
Eva Moreau sat opposite DI Callaghan and DCI Morrison, her
wrists cuffed to the metal table. She had changed into a grey police-issue
sweatshirt, but her posture remained unchanged—calm, composed, utterly
unshaken.
Woodford watched from the observation room behind the
one-way glass. He wasn’t sure why he was still here. Perhaps because Moreau had
let herself be caught, and that unsettled him more than the alternative.
Callaghan leaned forward, arms resting on the table. “We
know about the Order of the Deep. We know about your targets. We’ve got enough
to put you away for a long time.”
Moreau just smiled. “Then why are we still talking?”
Morrison’s voice was measured. “Because we don’t think you
were finished.”
Moreau tilted her head slightly. “Wasn’t I?”
Callaghan exhaled, rolling his shoulders. “Look, we’re done
with the theatrics. We have your phone, your messages, your coded nonsense
about Babylon falling. We know this wasn’t just about Henry Sutherland.”
Moreau finally looked at him properly. “Of course not.”
A flicker of something—satisfaction?—passed across
Morrison’s face. “Then tell us. What comes next?”
Moreau leaned back in her chair. “You’re asking the wrong
question.”
Callaghan sighed. “Alright, I’ll bite. What’s the right
question?”
Moreau’s gaze flicked towards the mirror, and for a split
second, Woodford felt like she was looking straight at him.
She spoke softly.
“Who is the woman on the beast?”
Silence.
Callaghan frowned. “What?”
Moreau’s smile deepened. “Revelation 17. The woman, arrayed
in purple and scarlet, sitting atop the beast. The great city that rules over
the kings of the earth.” She tilted her head. “Who do you think that is?”
Morrison exhaled through his nose. “We’re not here for a
theology lesson.”
Moreau ignored him. She turned to Callaghan. “You think I’m
the villain. That I’m the one riding the beast, drunk on blood and
destruction.” Her fingers flexed against the cuffs. “But you’ve misunderstood.
I am not the woman.”
Callaghan’s jaw tightened. “Then who is?”
Moreau’s smile faded. “Look around you, Detective.”
Callaghan glanced at Morrison, then back at her. “Just say
what you mean.”
Moreau exhaled, shaking her head. “Babylon isn’t a place.
It’s a system. A machine. One that consumes and devours, that fattens itself on
the suffering of others. Who profits from that suffering? Who benefits?”
Callaghan stayed silent.
Moreau leaned forward. “You think you’ve won.”
Something about the way she said it sent a shiver down
Woodford’s spine.
Morrison’s voice was sharp. “What are you saying, Moreau?”
She sat back again, a knowing look in her eyes. “It doesn’t
matter that I’m here. I was never the one at the top of the chain.”
Woodford swallowed.
Sutherland.
He turned, hurrying out of the observation room and into the
hallway. Callaghan’s voice followed behind him, still pressing Moreau for
details, but she had given them everything she intended to.
Woodford pulled out his phone, scrolling quickly through the
news.
Then he saw it.
A breaking headline.
Prominent City Financier Found Dead in Mayfair Home
His heart pounded. He opened the article.
Henry Sutherland, CEO of Vanguard Holdings, was discovered
dead in his residence late last night. Early reports suggest no signs of forced
entry. Police are treating the death as unexplained.
Woodford closed his eyes.
It wasn’t over.
Not even close.
Chapter 19: A Cup Full of Blood
Woodford stood outside Sutherland’s Mayfair townhouse,
staring at the chaos unfolding before him. Flashing blue lights painted the
pristine white façade in shifting shades of shadow and glare. Uniformed
officers moved in and out, their breath clouding the cold night air. A small
knot of journalists gathered at the end of the street, held at bay by a
bored-looking constable.
He had seen death before. As a minister, he had stood at
hospital bedsides, at gravesides, in rooms where the air was thick with grief.
But this was different. This was judgment, or something trying to masquerade as
it.
Morrison was waiting for him at the threshold, coat
unbuttoned, tie loosened. He looked older than usual, his face set in grim
lines. “I assume you’ve seen the news.”
Woodford nodded. “How?”
Morrison turned, gesturing for him to follow. “That’s what
we’re trying to work out.”
Inside, the house was silent, the hush of death pressing
against every surface.
Woodford took it in. High ceilings. Polished marble floors.
A world so far removed from the one he lived in that it barely felt real.
They led him into the study.
Henry Sutherland was seated in a heavy leather armchair, his
head slumped forward slightly, hands resting on the arms of the chair. He could
have been sleeping—except for the dark stain spreading across the front of his
silk dressing gown. A cup of something thick and red sat on the table beside
him.
Woodford swallowed.
“Tell me that’s not—”
Callaghan, who had been standing by the window, turned.
“It’s blood.” His voice was flat. “Not all of it his.”
Woodford forced himself to breathe steadily. “Message?”
Morrison nodded. “That’s what we think.”
Callaghan gestured at the table. Beside the cup, there was a
single sheet of paper.
Woodford stepped closer.
A verse, written in neat, steady handwriting.
“For in her was found the blood of prophets and of saints,
and of all who have been slain on the earth.”
Revelation 18:24.
Babylon.
Woodford exhaled slowly. “Moreau’s in custody.”
Morrison’s expression didn’t change. “Yes.”
Callaghan glanced at the body. “Which means she didn’t do
this.”
Woodford felt a cold weight settle in his stomach.
Moreau had called herself an instrument of judgment, but she
had also said something else.
I was never the one at the top of the chain.
There was someone else.
Or worse—there were others.
Woodford turned to Morrison. “What do you know about the
Order of the Deep?”
Morrison hesitated. “Moreau’s lot?”
Woodford nodded. “She made it sound like there was more to
them. Like she wasn’t working alone.”
Morrison exchanged a look with Callaghan, then sighed.
“We’ve been looking into them. They’re old. Older than Moreau, older than
anything we’ve seen connected to these murders. Some kind of underground sect.
Financial elites, political figures, religious radicals.” He shook his head.
“We thought Moreau was the ringleader. Maybe she was, in the sense that she was
leading this particular wave. But if you’re asking whether this goes deeper—”
He gestured at Sutherland’s corpse.
There was their answer.
Woodford’s gaze returned to the cup.
A mockery of communion. A perversion of the cup of
salvation.
Or worse—an offering.
Something ancient stirred in his mind, unbidden. A warning
buried deep in scripture.
Come out of her, my people, so that you do not share in her
sins, so that you do not receive her plagues…
But what if they weren’t plagues?
What if they were executions?
Morrison straightened. “We need to talk to Moreau again.”
Woodford nodded.
But deep inside, he already knew what they would find.
Moreau had warned them.
Babylon wasn’t just one person.
And it wasn’t done falling.
Chapter 20: Babylon is Fallen
The interview room was colder than before. Or maybe that was
just the weight pressing down on Woodford’s chest.
Eva Moreau sat in the same position as before, her hands
folded neatly on the table. She was still cuffed, but the restraint seemed
meaningless now. She wasn’t trying to fight. She wasn’t trying to run.
She was waiting.
Callaghan leaned forward, knuckles resting on the table.
“Sutherland’s dead.”
Moreau smiled, just slightly. “I heard.”
Morrison’s voice was sharp. “Did you order it?”
Moreau tilted her head. “Does it matter?”
Callaghan slammed a hand on the table. “It matters if we
have a conspiracy of killers running around London.”
Moreau blinked at him, slowly. “And you think stopping me
stops them?”
Silence.
Woodford exhaled. “You knew this would happen.”
Moreau turned to look at him, properly. “Of course.”
Woodford studied her. “You weren’t the leader. You were a
herald.”
Moreau smiled again.
Morrison frowned. “What does that mean?”
Woodford’s voice was quiet. “She wasn’t the one running the
show. She was the one announcing it. Making way for something bigger.”
Morrison’s face darkened. “You mean there’s someone else
pulling the strings?”
Moreau exhaled, amused. “Oh, Detective. There are many hands
on those strings.”
Callaghan rubbed his forehead. “We’re wasting time. If
there’s someone else, give us a name.”
Moreau leaned back. “It’s too late for names.”
Woodford swallowed. “Then what’s next?”
Moreau’s eyes gleamed. “Revelation 18.”
Morrison tensed. “Babylon’s fall.”
Moreau nodded. “It has begun.”
Callaghan scoffed. “And what, exactly, does that mean?”
Moreau smiled. “You’ll see soon enough.”
A knock at the door. A young officer stuck his head in,
looking pale.
“Sir? You need to see this.”
Morrison stood, following the officer into the corridor.
Woodford and Callaghan exchanged a glance before hurrying after him.
The station’s television screen was flickering with a live
news broadcast.
“Reports are coming in of multiple explosions across London.
Early indications suggest targeted attacks against financial institutions and
government buildings…”
Woodford’s blood ran cold.
The images flashed across the screen. Smoke rising from the
City. Sirens wailing. Crowds surging in panic.
Moreau had never been the storm.
She had been the warning.
And now, Babylon was burning.
Epilogue: God has Given Judgment
Three weeks later, London was still scarred.
The fires had been extinguished, but the smoke lingered in
unseen ways—trapped in the lungs of a city that had inhaled its own
destruction. The explosions had targeted financial institutions, government
buildings, symbols of power. And though the death toll was lower than feared,
the message had been received.
Babylon had been judged.
Or so the perpetrators believed.
Woodford stood at the edge of Bloomsbury Square, watching
the city move around him. There had been vigils. Marches. Political speeches
about security, extremism, and the fragility of order. But beneath it all,
something else had taken root—a fear that the world was shifting, that the
certainties people had built their lives upon were cracking beneath their feet.
In his pocket, his fingers found the scrap of paper. A
single verse, written in steady, deliberate handwriting.
“Rejoice over her, O heaven, you saints and apostles and
prophets! For God has given judgment for you against her.”
Revelation 18:20.
Eva Moreau had vanished.
The official story was that she had taken her own life in
custody. But Woodford knew a cover-up when he saw one. The Order of the Deep
had long arms, and Moreau had always been just one piece in a larger design.
Callaghan had been furious, Morrison quietly resigned. They
had both known they wouldn’t get real answers—not yet. The people who had
orchestrated all of this were still out there, still hidden behind layers of
influence and wealth.
And yet, something had changed.
A system had been shaken. The cracks were visible now.
Woodford exhaled, turning back toward his church.
A city, fallen but still standing.
A world, ending but not yet gone.
And beneath the ashes, something new beginning to smoulder.
For now, that was enough.
——
AI was used as a tool to support, not replace, human
creativity and judgment in bringing this idea to fruition.
