Snake Bite

Jim Malloy

Description

In 1966, the Hells Angels, led by Cutter, controlled all the movement of marijuana and
meth through the Apache reservation at the Arizona border.
El Serpiente was one mean-ass Mexican connected to the cartel that declared war on
the Angels for control of the drug routes.
Father Mike, a priest at the Apache mission, confronted the drug dealers and was
jumped by six of Snake’s bad guys and ended up in the hospital.
Retired Sergeant Jack Delaney, nicknamed Micky, was merely visiting his brother to
see how he was doing. After seeing his brother in the hospital and hearing the details
from the Apache Chief. it really pissed him off.
Micky sends for the Doom Squad and declares war on Snake and Cutter.
Small problem, 1966 in Arizona territory on the Apache reservation was still the Wild
West, no law and no rules. Micky thought that was just fine.
Join Micky, the Doom Squad, and the Apache nation as they battle Snake, the meanest
hombre west of the Rio Grande.

Sujets

• Bite
• Detective
• Relationship
• Mystery
• Snake
• Fiction
• Pénis

Informations

• Publié par: Xlibris US
• Date de parution: 29 janvier 2023
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781669864301
• Langue: English

Extrait

SNAKE BITE
A Sgt. Delaney “Doom Squad” Novel
 
 
Jim Malloy
 
Copyright © 2023 by Jim Malloy.
 
Library of Congress Control Number:
2023901617
ISBN:
Hardcover
978-1-6698-6432-5

Softcover
978-1-6698-6431-8

eBook
978-1-6698-6430-1

 
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.
 
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
 
Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.
Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.
 
 
 
Rev. date: 01/26/2023
 
 
 
Xlibris
844-714-8691
www.Xlibris.com
828802
CONTENTS
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
EPILOGUE
 
BOOKS BY JIM MALLOY
Historical Adventure
Raptor’s Revenge
 
Hard-boiled Detective
Lollipop Murders
Death Whispers
Die, Mother Goose, Die
The Twister
Snake Bite
 
Book review s at:
Jimmalloy-author.com
Video preview s at:
https://www.youtube.com/@jimmalloyauthor
 
 
To: Joe and Ditty Strifler.
Solid F olks.
Although the actions of law enforcement in this book
are fiction, at some level, I’m sure, those not in law
enforcement believe that is the way it is and to those in law enforcement, at some level, I’m sure, wish that it was.
 
 
 
And the great dragon was cast down, the old serpent that is called Devil, Satan, the deceiver of the whole world, he was cast down to earth and his angels were cast down with him.
Revelation 12 verse 19
Thus, from that time, evil was born on e arth.

CHAPTER 1
Saturday, 9 AM.
High Desert, Apache Pass.
S NAKE LEAPED TO the top of the boulder, glaring mean with meat thick lips pulled tight in a snarl. His legs, heavy and braced wide, tabled a body broad as a bison and bore a face that would make the devil wince. Built Mexican hard and grizzly mean, his reptile eyes soaked dread in his prey for he ruled vulgar and cruel by fear and daring. He was the ultimate predator.
“Amigos,” he boomed, jabbing his machete in the air. “Are you ready to kill the Diablo’s bla ncos ?”
The band of brothers, his campañeros , razed by meth and marijuana, howled, throwing their arms to the sky, pledging their loyalty to the death.
Watching Snake whip his gang into a frenzy, Philippi stood at the rear, shaking his fists, joining the others. The one standing next to him, eyes wild, leaned close.
“This is a rare privilege amigo. Mark this day, our king leads the charge. No one is greater. He is our god,”
With that declaration, he turned back, joining the mob in their adoration. Phillippi starred back, unbelieving, wondering what the god planned.
Snake stood tall for his kind because of a Russian grandfather. A rattlesnake skin bandana, low on his forehead, held back a hunk of shoulder black hair lined with a finger streak of white caused by a glancing bullet wound two years back. His eyes, buried under hard-boned brows, were zero black, small and beady.
A purple-thick scar from a prison fight sliced straight from forehead to chin down the left cheek. The blade nicked the eyeball leaving a white razor line across the marble black iris. His mouth, twisted from the slashed cheek muscle, was frozen in a forever devil’s sneer against hide-tough leather skin that defied the Arizona sun. His evil grin underscored his outlook toward life that he forever preached.
“Fuck the world!” he howled, eyes wild, throwing his arms in the air. “Take to your steeds.”
The gang hurrahed and mounted their dirt bikes, ready for blood. Each motorcycle, caked in dirt, was fitted with an array of firepower from twelve gage pumps to drum fed Tommy’s. Back up iron from swords to military forty-fives were strapped to every rider complementing a Bowie knife hung low on the hip.
Philippi, straddling his three-fifty Honda, hit the kick starter and twisted the throttle to roar the engine. Like the rest, he wore leather chaps over Levis plus leather arm guards to protect against desert cactus. Head bands or reversed baseball hats held back the sweat against squinting eyes protected by sunglasses or goggles. Each left arm branded, near the shoulder, sported the gang’s mark of a snake’s head leaking venom from the fangs, highlighting Satan’s triple six.
On some riders, tear drop tattoos, worn proud, dripped from the corner of the left eye bragging about a rape or murder. Western boots, hoofed with cleats, hid a backup switchblade. Last but not least, canteens and booze along with tool kits and cowboy hats were bungeed atop the rear fender.
Sixty-two riders cranked throttles and roared, stirring the blood as they waited for Snake to take the lead. Philippe glanced over his shoulder and checked out the two dune buggies covering the rear. Each was operated by three men. Driver and shotgun sat in the double saddles and a gunner, standing center rear, manned a fifty caliber machine gun mounted on the roll bar.
“HOOOoooHAAAaa.”
As the mob cheered, Philippi turned to catch Snake, pulling a wheelie, racing along the formation of bikes. His eyes automatically checked to see if the usual two burlap sacks were strapped against his rear fender.
They were.
Por-Dios , Philippi thought, these cabrones are really gonna do it. I need to contact my handler.

CHAPTER 2
Saturday, 11:1 5 AM.
Tu cson.
M ICKY STEPPED OFF the plane and was sure he was on another planet, probably Mars. The dead air, desert dry, sucked his breath as the Arizona sun punched like a blast furnace. Heat waves rippled up, radiating from the tarmac, creating weird spirits that blurred his vision. Everything was so bright. His eyes burned and he was sure someone tossed sand in them.
“Damn, do humans live here?”
He hustled with the other passengers toward the terminal hoping for the best. The fifty yards seemed like a mile. Once inside the air conditioned building, he sucked a cool breath thinking he might live.
He mumbled, “First things first,” as he hustled to the men’s room for a piss. After shaking it dry, he splashed cold water on his face trying to convince himself it wasn’t that bad. He’d get used to it.
He signed the car rental forms, slung his overnight bag over his shoulder, grabbed a local paper, and exited the terminal in search of his car.
“Damn,” he spouted, glancing at the fire ball in the sky.
Naturally, he thought, hustling forward, the damn car would be at the far end of the lot. He could feel the blacktop heat burn through his leather soles. Moving faster thinking he was going to melt, he found the car and grabbed the door handle.
“Shit!” he yelped, jerking his hand away. “That’s hot as a soldering iron.”
He pulled his handkerchief out, covered the handle, opened the door, tossed his overnight bag in and slid behind the wheel.
“Shit!”
The car’s inside was a blast furnace.
“I’m gonna be barbequed. Get used to this, my ass.”
An hour later at the hospital, he stood at the foot of his brother’s bed. Father Mike, sleeping, had a fat bandage circling his crown and a couple fingers taped against tongue depressor splints. But, as usual, the black patch covering his left eye drew Micky’s stare. It was hard to get used to.
Kinda ironic, he thought. His brother chose the Jesuits and served missions in Africa and South America for a whole bunch of years. After doing his time, he gets a posh job in the good ole USA and damn near gets killed . . . Twice.
Watching him sleep, Micky let his memory drift to the day six months back when his brother, visiting him in St. Louis, took an arrow in the head meant for Micky. The killer, nicknamed the Ghost, screwed up and hit the wrong brother. The metal shaft entered Father Mike’s left eye at an angle, stabbing through his skull, and exited his ear canal. It missed his brain but cost him an eye and the hearing in one ear. Damn near killed him.
Micky tiptoed back to the hallway wanting some answers.
Isaiah Deerhawk, who had called to tell him his brother was in the hospital, waited in the hall, guarding the room. As they talked, Micky sized him up and took note of the younger companion.
“Thanks for taking care of things, Isaiah.”
Isaiah shrugged, “Your brother is a good man.”
Isaiah, an Apache elder, obviously was hitting the upper scales toward a century and although he now had religion, one look at the worn face told volumes of his past life. His eyes, primal black and many times tested, sat hard on a wizened stare promising loyalty to the death for a fr