The Four: White Eagle

By B.L. Beckley

A young activist is bringing the world's elite to Peru's most sacred place to affect environmental policy, but his goals have nothing to do with saving the planet. He has a single, solitary target amongst the crowd and if he is successful, he will do what he failed to do in Japan...release one of The Four.

Bobby Bridges is slow

• Language: English
• Publisher: BSquared Press
• Release date: Aug 6, 2023
• ISBN: 9781088265611

B.L. Beckley

B.L. Beckley lives in Leesburg, Florida with his wife, his youngest son, and daughter-in-law. He is the author of The Four: White Buffalo (Book 1); The Four: White Dragon (Book 2); and The Cloudmaker's Recipe Book: A Christmas Tale (illustrated by Russell Richardson. He has been working in STEM publishing for over 20 years and has coached baseball for 15 years.

Book preview

The Four

White

Eagle

Book 3

B.L. Beckley

Copyright ©2023, B.L. Beckley

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author/publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

Printed and bound in the United States of America and other locations around the world.

All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

BSquared Press

Leesburg, Florida

Print ISBN: 978-1-0882-6554-3

eBook ISBN: 978-1-0882-6561-1

DEDICATION

I guess I’ll let the proverbial cat out of the bag here and throw in

an inside joke.

This is for my therapist, medicine man of the Seneca tribe, and one of my

dearest friends, Robert Bridges.

I miss you, brother...go figure.

Table of Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1.  The News Crawl

Chapter 2.  Finishing What Cecil Started

Chapter 3. Nepotism?

Chapter 4.  Excessive Ebullience

Chapter 5.  The Activist

Chapter 6.  The Jaguar

Chapter 7.  The White Eagle

Chapter 8.  The Debrief

Chapter 9.  Oto

Chapter 10.  Traveling Plans

Chapter 11.  Waiting and Watching

Chapter 12. Demonio Blanco (Lima, Peru)

Chapter 13.  A Plan

Chapter 14.  Creating a Legend

Chapter 15.  A Legend Meets Reality

Chapter 16.  Hitching a Ride

Chapter 17.  The Stowaway

Chapter 18.  Together

Chapter 19.  Hairnets and Hippies

Chapter 20.  Pot Plants and Bombshells

Chapter 21.  The Truth Can Stink and Smell Like Honeysuckle

Chapter 22.  Einar

Chapter 23.  Three Unanswerable Questions

Chapter 24.  Suck Level 11

Chapter 25.  A Well Kept Secret

Chapter 26.  Grandfather

Chapter 27.  Master and Servant

Chapter 28.  The Hotel

Chapter 29.  A Penchant for Violence

Chapter 30.  Carolyn Ehrling

Chapter 31.  The Spirit World’s Greatest Hemp Farmer

Chapter 32.  The Anthropologist

Chapter 33.  The Thunderbird Rises

Chapter 34.  Not Just Another Human

Chapter 35.  The White Cliffs

Chapter 36.  Witnesses to the World Record

Dear Reader

Prologue Snippet - The Four: White Whale

Prologue

Arlo Kavanagh was very proud of himself.  He had organized many protests in his lifetime, but this one was different. There were no easily swayed nut jobs with a penchant for complaining about anything, who would carry signs for days on end for a few dollars or a few bottles of cheap liquor.  There were no hastily pitched, litter-strewn campgrounds with musty-smelling tents and malodorous campers.  There was no constant police presence where unending tension between law enforcement and protestors often ended in physical clashes and arrests.

In reality, this was not even a protest.  It was a conference and in Arlo’s mind, there was one big difference between the two.  Protests were for the great unwashed. Conferences were for the elite.

It had taken barely a year to reach this pinnacle.  Arlo had disappeared from the protest at the airport outside Los Angeles, leaving all the people he had whipped into a frenzy behind to be nothing more than an unorganized mob that soon turned on itself and ended up disbanding without another incident.  A day later he walked into a salon in San Francisco still wearing his dark green shirt with the graphic of a robed woman who looked part human, part tree. As he approached the counter, the receptionist couldn’t help but give him a withering look.  Her employer was not in business to serve bums off the street.  When he asked for an appointment, she summarily dismissed him, saying they were booked solid for at least a week even though several of her fellow employees were standing in the open salon area behind the desk doing nothing.

Arlo just smiled, pulled out his wallet, and tossed his driver’s license and an American Express Platinum credit card onto the counter.  I think you’ll find that I belong here, he said, mimicking her insulting tone.  The receptionist stared open-mouthed at the ID, her eyes glancing back and forth between the man standing in front of her and the tiny picture.

I...I’m sorry, Mr. Kavanagh, she stammered.  I’ll get someone to help you right away.

Certainly, Arlo nodded and then smiled as the receptionist talked to her colleagues.  A couple of them scoffed at first when they looked at him, but a few hushed whispers later, their eyes widened and there was a scrum as each of them pushed their way to the front of the store, trying to be the first to offer their services.  Arlo smiled kindly and held his hands up.

I’m going to need a complete makeover, he said.  There will be plenty to do and plenty to go around for everyone, he rubbed the tips of his fingers together to signify the tips would be generous.  Shall we get to work?  As the hairdressers started, he instructed the others to find a boutique men’s clothing store and have them bring several suits for him to inspect along with all the necessary undergarments.  Two of the makeup artists hustled out of the salon and were halfway down the block when Arlo’s first dreadlock landed on the tile floor.

Three hours later, Arlo Kavanagh remarked to the receptionist that he might have to stop at the DMV to get another photo for his license and she beamed at him. He had gone from a bum to the visage of a male model, and he had spread the wealth with large tips to everyone in the salon.  They pampered him every way they knew how and Arlo enjoyed being treated as if he was better than they were.

In his mind, he was.

His suits were being tailored and would be delivered that evening to a suite downtown at the Four Seasons that the receptionist at the salon had booked for him.  He had chosen a pair of slightly distressed dark blue jeans and a white collared shirt to wear for the day along with a black pair of Salvatore Ferragamo shoes with pewter accents.  He opted for a tapered fade haircut and a glossy black color that was combed back with copious amounts of gel.  He carried one bag filled to the brim with products to keep him looking his best and he thought for a minute about asking one of the attendants at the salon to carry it for him to the hotel, but he chose to not be a pompous jerk.  He would have to ease back into that lifestyle over time.

The entire staff thanked Arlo on the way out and he had a fistful of business cards in his hand as he left which he tossed in a garbage bin on the corner.  The walk to the Four Seasons took about half an hour and Arlo enjoyed the hustle and bustle of the city.  It was a far cry from the tent cities he had grown accustomed to during his protest days, but he was not out of his element.  He had grown up here, the only son of a prominent banker who had survived every Wall Street crash and had cashed in on the financial ruin of others for more than 50 years.  Arlo despised his father and did everything he could to needle the old man...except for refusing his money.  In essence, Arlo grew up alone, raised by nannies as his father chased the almighty dollar while his mother chased the bottom of wine bottle after wine bottle. Perhaps out of guilt, Arlo’s accounts were filled to the brim by his father and he tapped in whenever he felt the need or wanted to do something that would raise his father’s blood pressure.  Every protest Arlo had started was funded by his father’s money, a secret Arlo kept vigilantly from the protestors. The press would have had a field day with him if they knew he was protesting the one percent…using money from a one percenter.

And yet, for every dollar he spent, Arlo’s accounts would magically refill, a modern-day adulteration of the biblical Widow and Her Pot of Oil story.  Arlo knew that his father would be told by one of his hundreds of employees that his son had spent money today at a salon, tailor, and posh hotel in their hometown and he grinned viciously at knowing his father would suddenly be buoyed by the news.  It might mean that Arlo was becoming responsible.  He enjoyed knowing that eventually, the reality of his plan would break his father’s heart yet again.

He hoped this time it would be both real and permanent.

As he entered the Four Seasons, a porter rushed to his side and offered to carry the bag of products from the salon which Arlo graciously accepted.  The porter waved his hand toward the front desk and ushered Arlo to the far side of the desk, away from the line of tourists waiting to check-in.  Just minutes later, Arlo and the porter were standing outside his suite and the porter was promising to bring the suits to the room the moment they arrived.  Arlo tipped the porter handsomely and walked into the suite.  He plopped the bag on the bed and walked to the window to survey the skyline.  As he watched the traffic on the streets below him and the occasional plane passing in the distance, he wondered how long he would have to wait for contact.  It wouldn’t matter, he had the resources to make his stay at the hotel an extensive one if needed.  He was just excited to get things moving.

Three days later, as he was eating room service breakfast, the phone in Arlo’s suite rang and he received his first directions.  He thanked the person on the other end of the line breathlessly and called the front desk with a specific and long list of things he needed directed the clerk to put them on his bill. Shortly after 2 o’clock, Arlo was ushered through the front doors of the Four Seasons and into a limousine that would take him to the airport.  The hotel staff thanked him graciously for his stay and he asked one of the managers to contact him in a few weeks with information on hosting a small, intimate conference.  They promised it would be taken care of and Arlo stepped into the limo.

For months, Arlo Kavanagh spent almost all of his time doing what he did best, organizing.  Every skill and tactic he learned whipping those he considered nutcases and fruit jobs into spending weeks waving signs and chanting about things they didn’t truly care about (or understand) he used to full effect on a completely different audience.  He simply changed his tactics from preying on people’s desires to be victims of others to the opposite end of the spectrum. Giving rich people the opportunity to become involved in something that would change the world.  The elites wanted to be known not as victimizers, but as philanthropists who cared about important issues.  And they were willing to not only pay handsomely for the privilege, they were all willing to come to Machu Picchu to see Arlo Kavanagh’s employer.

And to be seen by him as well.

As Arlo watched them milling about the ruins of the ancient Incan citadel high above the Sacred Valley he marveled at how easy it had been to influence all of them.  They were icons of business, gurus of self-help empires, political leaders from every industrialized nation, and actors and musicians from every genre.  Yet, they had succumbed to the same desires as the aging hipsters, addicts, and homeless people he took advantage of to protest the very people who were here now.  He grinned and shook his head.  It was the easiest thing he had done.

Arlo heard his name being called and looked down from the terrace he was watching everyone from.  One of the many volunteers he had convinced to share their time and effort (at no cost) was waving to him.  Arlo jerked his head up, silently asking what was happening.  The volunteer cocked his head to one side and put three fingers up, then pointed down.  Arlo nodded and casually looked three terraces down in the direction the volunteer was referring to.  Seeing what the volunteer was pointing to, he couldn’t believe his luck.  He nodded again to the volunteer and flicked his fingers, telling them to move along.

They were both standing on the same terrace.  Even better, they were talking to one another.  It’s meant to be, Arlo whispered to himself.  It’s a sign. There’s nothing else it could be.

Millions had been spent enticing one of them to this sacred place.  Another had spent millions for the privilege of rubbing shoulders with the rest of the world’s wealthy and powerful few.

One was the intended target.

Arlo’s employer had made that clear from the very start. Every move he made, every move he told Arlo to make was intended to bring one very specific man to this place at this time.

The other man was a target of opportunity.

Arlo just prayed that his employer would accept his explanation when the time came and that he would not be punished.

Chapter 1 - The News Crawl

By the Creator, that boy can TALK, Maggie pushed into my mind.

I snorted and choked, bringing everyone’s attention to me at the dinner table.  Kelly Michaels was sitting next to me and immediately took it upon himself to pound hard in between my shoulder blades until I held my hand up, motioning for him to stop.

Please, continue, I wheezed, waving my hand to everyone.  Just a piece down the wrong pipe.  Within seconds, Benjamin Goddard returned to his normal Uzi-style conversation with my mother while Kelly and my dad had returned to their quiet determination to finish their plates while smiling and nodding at all the right moments.

Thanks a lot, I thought, turning to cough away from the table and locking eyes with Maggie, the massive tan and white husky I had inherited when I became the human protector of the White Buffalo spirit.  Our internal connection for communication proved both boon and a royal pain in the butt.

I don’t think your end will come at the hands of a piece of macaroni, she snorted and laid her head back down on her paws.  She was lying on the carpet next to the entrance to the kitchen, patiently waiting for whatever food Mom planned on giving her after dinner.

I certainly hope not.  ‘Spirit protector dies over dinner’ is not exactly the cosmic news I want to be associated with my death.

Hoping for a blaze of glory? Maggie asked.

I smiled and rolled my eyes. I’m hoping for a dies in his sleep after a long and BORING life.

I turned my attention back to the table and nodded at my mom who was looking at me with one eye, making sure I was okay.  Kelly asked across our internal connection if I needed another punch on the back and I respectfully declined with, only if you need one on the nose.

I’m watching you two, my father warned from across the table, pointing with both fingers to his eyes and then back to us.  His face was set in a grim mask and he was making his roadmap of facial scars stand out by holding his breath and putting pressure on his sinuses.  If a newcomer was at the table, they certainly would have been terrified at the sight, but all we did was snort and break into peals of laughter which increased tenfold when my mother stared across the table at us. Ben never even broke stride in his conversation with her, and Mom’s eyes seemed to be begging us to do something to get Ben to stop.  We hooted even louder and turned in our chairs as my father put the hand closest to her up, hiding the smile on his face as he desperately tried not to laugh with me and Kelly.

Ben finally broke off his conversation to watch us.  He rolled his eyes comically at my mother and sighed, I’m not sure if they’ve heard a word I’ve said over the past year.

Aw, Ben, I chuckled as I recovered.  I’m gonna miss you, man.

Yeah, Kelly agreed. I haven’t had an awkward pause in conversation since the day I met you.  The entire table broke into laughter, including Ben.  He knew we were telling the truth about his gift for gab, but he didn’t care a bit. We accepted him for who he was, and our friendship had been forged and heat-treated in the darkest depths of Aokigahara, the haunted forest in the foothills of Mount Fuji. We had gone together, a group of four boys seeking the human protector of the White Dragon spirit, Moriko. We had come out of the forest as a group of three and our companion, Boyd Ehrling had disappeared after trying to not only release the White Dragon to set fire to the planet but trying to kill us as well.

After seeing the bond between us after we returned from Japan, my mother suggested that Ben and Kelly come over once a week to have dinner.  The visits had all been a good time over the past months, but this one was tinged with sadness.  Ben’s father had been transferred to Base Halpern in Okinawa and their family was leaving over the weekend.  They would be very close to where we had been in Japan and Ben was already planning a visit to the Meiji Jingu shrine in Tokyo where Moriko lived with her spirit guide, Fumio.  Fumio had been instrumental in helping us defeat Boyd, though at first, he had been, at heart, a complete coward.  The former Shinto monk had sacrificed his physical being to become Moriko’s spirit guide after his predecessor abandoned the girl.  Fumio had been run through by the horn of White Buffalo, and in becoming spirit, had given Moriko the strength she needed to keep the White Dragon from escaping.  At the time, Ben had been carrying Moriko’s limp form through the forest, trying to escape a dragon-eating demon that Boyd had released.

It was true, Ben had a massive crush on Moriko at first, but when he learned that she had been a spirit guardian for over 40 years, those romantic feelings dissipated almost immediately. His crush had been understandable; Moriko looked like she was still in her late teens when we met her. Despite the heartbreak, Ben still wanted to spend time with Moriko and Fumio. He was one of the very few people in the world who had seen a physical manifestation of one of the White Buffalo, and that provided an interesting connection between them. Even as a protector, Moriko had never seen the White Dragon spirit.  Ben had seen the White Buffalo in full form.  As far as I knew, he and I alone shared that little tidbit of supernatural happening, and Moriko was already telling him via email that she was going to pick his brain about everything.

Ben smiled, trying to hold back the tears forming at the corners of his eyes.  I’ll miss you guys, too.  My mom reached over to him and squeezed his arm.

We will ALL miss you, Ben, she said soothingly. Stephen and I have so enjoyed having you here. She glanced at her husband and was about to give him the look, but she didn’t have to bother. He had already stretched out his hand and Ben took it. You’re a hell of a good kid, Ben.  And, if I haven’t said it enough times yet, we will always be thankful for everything you did to help our son.

Thanks, Ben whispered, closing his eyes for a moment and nodding his head once.  He looked across the table at Bobby, who was nodding and Kelly winked with a huge smile and a slight turn of his head that said, Good job, buddy.

Ben beamed and then moved slightly to one side so he could see Maggie lying on the floor.  Thank you, too, Maggie.

Maggie, completely out of character, actually barked instead of making the in-your-head connection and the table erupted again in laughter.  Mom stood up to clear the table and Dad started up to help her. 

Why don’t you guys find the game on TV? He motioned to me and Kelly.  Maybe we can catch a couple of innings before Ben has to go.

Sounds good, Ben agreed.  Who are they playing tonight?

I think it’s an interleague matchup, Dad called from the kitchen as the plates and silverware clattered into the sink.  Braves against some team from New York...I think they used to be called the Highlanders."

Ooh, Kelly and I moaned in unison and wrestled for control of the remote control.  Not the Yankees again, groaned Ben.

Shut your mouth, sinner! Kelly yelled, turning with shock at Ben while I grinned and tore the remote out of his hands. Would be nice to see the Astros for once, Ben replied with a shrug.

Kelly clasped his hands together and closed his eyes.  Dear Lord, he prayed with mocking reverence, Forgive my dear friend, Benjamin Tyson Goddard, for he knows not what he says.

Jackass, Ben hissed and slapped Kelly across the back of the head. Kelly paused for only a moment and machine-gunned the end of his prayer.  And we pray for his forgiveness for violence against his friends. Amen, and pass the popcorn.

Ben slapped Kelly again and then jumped over the back of the couch, landing roughly next to me.  I grunted and elbowed Ben in the stomach. Knock it off; I’m trying to see the lineups.

Like it really matters, Ben replied grumpily.

Blasphemy! Kelly yelled and tried to reach across to thump Ben on the leg but was stopped short when my dad grabbed him by the ear and pulled.

You three are about ready to watch the game from the front porch.  All three of us nodded and mumbled yes, sir but we were grinning from ear to ear...and we knew my father was doing the same thing.  We tried to wipe the smirks off our faces as he sat down in one of the overstuffed recliners and was immediately joined by his wife, who snuggled up on his chest and stretched her legs over his.

Throughout the first two innings, we chatted about every pitch, every swing, and every at-bat.  We talked about the throwing motions and batting stances we preferred and everyone shouted when the Yankees dropped three runs on the Braves in the first inning due to a monster home run.

Not for a moment did we take the time to read the news crawl at the bottom of the screen. Not that it would have made sense at the time, but again and again it read, Teenage environmental activist brings global leaders in government and industry together in Peru for the next five days. Significant policy changes expected.

Chapter 2 - Finishing What Cecil Started

Arthur Whitehead walked through the front door of the high school and nodded at the woman behind the reception desk.  While he was not in uniform and had no official capacity at the school, everyone on the staff knew who he was and not one of them would dare tell him EVERY visitor to the school had to sign in and be given a sticky name tag to wear.

As he walked down the entry hall, he heard the end-of-class bell ring and he cursed quietly under his breath.  He had been asked to come to the school by a member of the staff, someone he had known for years. Arthur didn’t mind coming to the school; he just didn’t want to walk down the halls while they were choked with students rushing down the halls to their next class.

He looked to his left and saw an empty chemistry lab, so he ducked inside and leaned up against one of the islands.  He peered around the room and his eye landed on the oversized periodic chart covering almost an entire wall of the lab.  He sighed and chuffed air out of his nose, remembering his days long ago in high school, trying like crazy to remember symbols and atomic weights for weekly chemistry quizzes.  Outside in the hall, there was a cacophony of loud voices, laughter, clanging locker doors, and more than a few angry shouts.  None of it fazed him. He had heard the same things nearly every day since he had become a Marine. It was part of the natural ebb and flow of his life.

When the bell rang again, Arthur pushed off the island and walked out into the hallway.  The hallway was almost completely clear and only a few teachers remained at the doors, looking down the corridor for a late student.  Arthur smiled at a young woman standing outside her classroom and muttered a friendly good afternoon to her as he passed.

And you, sir, she whispered breathlessly and watched him turn the corner and head toward the wing where the gymnasium was. She made a note in her head to ask her fellow staff members why General Whitehead was walking the halls dressed in civilian clothes, but by the time her break would come, the entire school