Snake Bite: A Sgt. Delaney "Doom Squad" Novel

By Jim Malloy

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.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jan 29, 2023
• ISBN: 9781669864301

Jim Malloy

Jim Malloy lived and sailed for fifteen years on the H.M.S. Dolphin, a 76- foot square rigged barquentine. She flew eleven sails on three masts and bore four deck cannons, two stern swivel guns and a bow chaser. She is a scaled replica of the original Dolphin under the command of Captain Wallice who discovered Tahiti before Captain Cook. He owned a private island in the Bahamas and a private museum dedicated to the history of privateers. Jim sailed throughout the Bahamas, Indies, and Jamaica. It was during this time, his novel, Raptor’s Revenge, was imagined.

Book preview

Copyright © 2023 by Jim Malloy.

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 reviews at:

Jimmalloy-author.com

Video previews at:

https://www.youtube.com/@jimmalloyauthor

To: Joe and Ditty Strifler.

Solid Folks.

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 earth.

1.JPG

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 blancos?"

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.

1.JPG

CHAPTER 2

Saturday, 11:15 AM.

Tucson.

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 friend and to his enemies, no quarter. Micky would bet Custer felt his bullets.

Micky wondered about the much younger husky Indian standing stone faced three paces behind Isaiah. Full Apache, middle twenties, and looked like a white man, normal haircut, short sleeve shirt, and Khakis. Looked like Joe College.

Isaiah noticed Micky’s curiosity.

This is Timothy Shootingstar, my grandson.

Timothy just nodded, no smile, no handshake.

Your brother took on some drug dealers . . . .

Thirty minutes later, Micky had the story.

It seems Father Mike took offense to some Mexicans transporting drugs across the reservation trying to infect the kids at his Mission school. When he brought it to their attention, a gang of six got perturbed and decided to kick the shit out of him.

Well, apparently Father Mike skipped the Bible class on Turn the other cheek and took down four of the assholes before one caught him with a baseball bat. Thinking they killed him, they split and were last seen dragging their four wounded off into the sunset. Fortunately, Father Mike, being Irish, had a thick skull evolved from eons of Irish brethren being whacked over the noggin in tavern brawls.

Micky returned to the hospital room, tapped the end of the bed, and watched his brother’s eyes flutter open.

Damn, Bro, Micky said. What’d I tell you about ducking? You must be accident prone.

Father Mike, still a little fuzzy, took a second before his smile took hold.

Told you I was dealing with a little problem, he said from a scratchy throat.

If this is a little problem, I’d hate to see what you consider a big one.

I think I got four of ‘em pretty good.

"Yeah, Isaiah told me. I love that ‘Eye for an eye’ part in the Bible."

I get out in a week. They said I had a concussion.

Thank God they hit the part that’s already goofy.

Can you stick around?

If I can keep from drying up and turning into a mummy, how do you stand this heat?

You get used to it. Have Isaiah take you to my place at the Mission. I got an extra bed.

Okay, I’ll be back tomorrow. Get some rest, he said, turning to leave.

Jack.

Micky twisted back.

Thanks for coming.

Wouldn’t miss it for the world.

After he left, Father Mike wondered about the remark. Miss what?

Isaiah, how about you and me grabbin’ something cold and wet for a little powwow?

Sounds good, but no firewater.

Firewater? You do know this is nineteen sixty-six?

Not out here. It’s more like eighteen sixty-six.

As they left the hospital, Isaiah wondered about Father Mike’s brother. He’d known the priest for eight years. He knew him well. This brother was the same but different. He stood a bit over six feet with average build on the slim side. Brown hair, normal cut, covered a plain face with a disarming smile. But the faint knife scar down the left cheek served as a warning.

Isaiah sensed more behind the bullet blue eyes, a simmering meanness, ready to boil and scald any predator that dared to test him.

Micky noticed Isaiah’s limp and the hard knobbed cane. That cane looked mighty familiar.

Isaiah, is that a shillelagh?

Isaiah held it up for him to see.

Yes, one of my prized possessions . . . . presented to me by a Union Irish soldier on the field of battle in February, eighteen ninety-two,

Micky had only seen a couple of them over the years. He hefted it in his hands finding it heavier than most and noted it was longer, knurled and knobby, more than others he’d seen. He gripped his hand around the fist-head and it fit perfectly, hard as iron. His dad had one but lost it. He always wanted his own.

Our two bands fought from day to night, back and forth, Isaiah started. He pushed me back. I pushed him. Finally, we just got tired and he hollered out for a powwow. We met on the plain with no weapons. He looked at me, smiled, and told me he respected me as a warrior. I told him the same. He gave me his lucky walking stick and I gave him my leather pouch of Apache tears.

Apache tears?

They are small black stones, polished bright, that hold the tears of our warrior’s widows. It is a powerful charm blessed by the Shaman, our medicine man . . . . It was a good day.

It’s really a nice one, Micky said, handing it back.

As Micky walked along beside him, listening, he sensed a life in a different world, a world of bravery and honor. He turned to check on the young Indian following a pace behind and wondered about his duty.

As the trio turned the corner, Micky thought the local tavern looked like something out of the old Wild West. Pushing through the classic swinging doors to the shadowed space, he stopped. His eyes struggled to adjust to the dark glum so foreign to the burning sun. His nose, however, immediately recognized the reek of the sweet and sour aroma of floor-soaked hops.

The saloon was long and narrow with a full-length bar complete with brass rails and spittoons. A dozen or more stools were tucked tight with three cowboy types at the far crook of the bar. They didn’t look happy.

Micky and Isiah grabbed a stool.

Timothy stood back and grabbed a chair against the back wall. As Micky settled in, per habit, he took a closer eye at the guys huddled, starring with a scowl. One said something and the two chuckled. Micky turned to Isaiah, dismissing them, just three drunks.

An hour later, after a couple iced cokes and peanuts, Micky had a pretty good handle on what they were up against.

Thanks Isaiah. I know what I gotta do.

Micky stood to pay the tab when the three Hells Angels hollered out, You fuckin’ Indian.

Timothy, Isaiah, and Micky looked their way.

What you lookin’ at, heathen?

The three slid off their stools and headed over, chests puffed, looking for trouble.

Come on, Micky said to Isaiah, trying to lead him to the door. Don’t pay any attention. They’re just three old drunks.

Who you callin’ old, fucken’ Indian lover.

They continued, closing the distance.

I bet you take Indian dick up the ass, you fag.

Micky whipped around, his anger at fight level.

Later, Micky would wonder what the hell happened. The next thing he knew Timothy kicked the living shit out of the two bikers with about four moves. He never saw anyone move that quick. He thought one biker went for his knife but Timothy moved so fast, he wasn’t sure. One thing for sure, though, the asshole was screaming as he starred at his compound fractured arm. The other was going to need a new knee.

Micky had to laugh at Isaiah. With a one-step dodge to the left, the knob of his shillelagh speared forward like a cue shot into the bikers mouth splitting his lips and removing a bunch of front teeth. The biker dropped to his haunches, hands across his mouth, howling like a cat in heat.

The three winners scooted out the door. Timothy wasn’t even breathing hard and Micky’s question about the grandson’s duty was asked and answered.

It was time to make some phone calls.

1.JPG

CHAPTER 3

Saturday, 2:30 PM.

Buffalo Canyon.

T HE DRUG CONVOY, kicking up rooster tails of sand, moved steady at a good clip through the shallow canyon. Three high suspension pickups, protected by sixty-two bikers, were spread five ranks at the front and rear and nine, doubled, blanketing each side. The Dodge long beds, fitted with oversize camper shells, rumbled along, heavy, stuffed with tons of pot and meth in the six-million-dollar range.

The whole bunch, armed to the teeth, rode cocky, loaded for bear. Cutter, the Hell’s Angel honcho, saddled a Kawasaki dirt bike, leading the column. Two Colts, fitted in western holsters, swung off his hips and a Samurai sword hung curved and ready across his back. On the side of his tank, a scabbard of worn leather was mounted like the Winchesters of old and sported a thirty round full auto M-16.

Cutter’s eyes, wary, scanned the bare canyon walls. They rose fifty feet or more, to the right and left, balancing boulders perfect for hiding.

Ambush territory.

He was anxious to get through the dry river bed knowing the danger of not holding the high ground. Local and state cops didn’t concern him because they were on Indian land and the feds were spread too thin to pay attention. But he was on guard for the Mexican band that wanted to horn in on the action. His boss told him they already had a couple minor hits along the Texas border.

He didn’t want to lead this run, but he knew it was necessary to set the example. The men needed to know he was the power.

He glanced back to make sure the formation was tight and looked ahead, taking a breath of relief. The end of the canyon was about a half-mile up, nothing but flat open prairie the rest of the way to the location of the drop. A rare smile curled his lips right before he heard the rumble of thunder.

Snake’s army swarmed over the lip of the canyon, bike’s screaming, charging the right flank of the convoy. Racing down the dune, Snake pumped his arm and the army of dirt bikes, their riders howling, split to the right and left, circling the drug caravan like Indians on a wagon train. Gunfire cracked like Chinese firecrackers cutting the convoy’s perimeter guard down before they could react. Their bikes flipped, dumping dead riders like the horse calvary of old.

Then, Snake’s two dune buggies appeared like visions and laid down a fifty-caliber carpet of slugs, taking out the three pickups hauling the drug load.

Out front, Cutter and his sidekick realized they were beat and raced ahead bent on escape. If I can make it to flatland, I can out ride the bastards.

The canyon walls shrunk lower but the desert floor was still a quarter mile out. Cutter took a quick glance over his shoulder hearing the rifle cracks levered from the five bikers chasing them. His sidekick, Slim, hugging his gas tank, raised his head looking to Cutter for a plan. Cutter caught Slim’s eyes just as a thirty-caliber bullet blew out his forehead.

Fuckers, Cutter screamed.

Seconds later, the desert flattened and he left the chase party in the dust, his bike red-lined.

It was over.

Snake, showing off, opened his throttle and crabbed a circle, spraying a fan of sand like a fountain. Then he dismounted, stripped his vest and strutted cocky, displaying his crest.

The black tattoo of a large rattlesnake head, open mouthed and fangs barred, covered his bare chest from neck to navel. The white fangs with drips of venom caught the eye and cupped the red tongue twisted in the number six. This was important because it completed the Mark of the Beast matching the other two red sixes inked on each side of the serpent’s head.

Diablo’s triple sixes. His badge of honor

He sucked a breath and puffed his chest. His crooked smirk flashed among his followers as he went to each downed biker, hacking the blade of his machete across their neck. The chop through the neck bone echoed off the walls of the gulch as the mob whooped their pleasure with each swing of the heavy blade. Some bikers, still alive, begged for mercy. Snake stood above them, grinning down into their eyes as he sliced their throats slowly, enjoying their screams of death.

His men howled and yelled, hallowing their god, firing their guns in the air, already dreaming of the booze and women sure to follow.

*

Saturday, 6:30 PM.

Father Mike’s Mission.

Micky followed Isaiah and Timothy to the Mission church and they pointed toward the small apartment next to the sacristy. Micky said his good nights and headed for the door anxious for a shower and a phone call to his wife. Once inside, he tossed his bag on a chair and sized the place up. Two single beds with the obligatory crucifix centered on the wall hung over the middle night stand and a reading lamp. The opposite wall sported a lonely easy chair, ottoman, and lamp. A couple books and magazines were scattered on the floor. A tiny couch table with a lamp also held a very old radio. There wasn’t a TV in sight. The rest of the apartment consisted of a bathroom and a one-step kitchen. Micky guessed his brother didn’t spend a lot of time there.

A half hour later, after a great shower, he plopped on the bed and dialed his wife. They talked for a half hour. His son, little Micky, was well, asking for his daddy. She was fine and happy to hear his brother was not seriously hurt. The packing was done. When escrow closed, she was going to stay with her mom and dad for a few days. Airline tickets to San Diego were reserved for next Thursday. She missed him and thought she’d stop in Tucson on the way to visit him and his brother.

Uhhh—Hon, give me a day or two to evaluate. It might not be a good idea. Things might get a little dicey.

Jack, what are you getting involved in now? Kathy said, knowing her husband. You were just going to make sure your brother’s okay, she said, her worry meter started to twitch. Please don’t start anything that’s dangerous.

Hon, don’t worry, everything is gonna be fine.

Famous last words . . . . You better take care of yourself. Call me every day.

Micky cradled the phone and settled back with the local newspaper and the top headline.

Increased Drug Activity by Cartel

Ample evidence indicates that drug activity is increasing in and around the Apache reservation.

A turf battle between the Mexican cartel and the

Hells Angels is creating dangerous conditions for tourists, hikers, and hunters.

All persons in the back country are cautioned to . . . .

As Micky’s eyes began to droop, a short article on page nine caught his attention. Seems officers discovered a young man hanging by his neck in a local park. What made it unusual was that his sexual organs were exposed and there was a ritualistic drawing scratched in the dirt with the ground dug up directly under him. Also, a dead dog with a rope leash was reported. Investigators believe it was some sort of ritual sacrifice.

Micky noted the paper said this was the fifth murder of this type in the last five months.

His eyes drooped again as he rolled over remembering a very similar modus operandi in St. Louis, wondering if they could be related.

*

Saturday, 9 PM.

Hells Angel compound.

The three stood in front of Cutter, one in a sling, one on crutches, and one with a bandaged mouth.

You mean one old Indian, a kid, and a white guy did this?

It was the white dude. He pulled a piece. We didn’t stand a chance.

The three dared not admit to Cutter that an old Indian and kid were responsible. Cutter preached that Indians were inferior humans, beneath the Arian race, incapable of besting a white. Good only for fertilizer.

Who is this asshole?

Don’t know.

Cutter quieted, forcing himself to contain his rage. If this gets out, it might get ugly.

Get the hell outta here.

Cutter turned to his lieutenant.

I want the fuckers’ name. Get a description, track him down.

*

The Hells Angel’s compound sat on a knoll a stone’s throw east of Benson Arizona.

The flat mound fifteen feet above the desert floor covered an irregular shape of about five acres consisting of seven old buildings which originally were