{"product_id":"no-angel-isbn-9780307405869","title":"No Angel","description":"\u003cb\u003eFrom the first federal agent to infiltrate the inner circle of  the outlaw Hells Angels Motorcycle Club comes the inside story of the 21-month  operation that almost cost him his family, his sanity, and his life.\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Getting shot  in the chest as a rookie agent, bartering for machine guns, throttling down the highway  at 100 mph, and responding to a full-scale, bloody riot between the Hells Angels  and their rivals, the Mongols—these are just a few of the high-adrenaline experiences  Dobyns recounts in this action-packed, hard-to-imagine-but-true story.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Dobyns leaves  no stone of his harrowing journey unturned. At runs and clubhouses, between rides  and riots, Dobyns befriends bad-ass bikers, meth-fueled “old ladies,” gun fetishists,  psycho-killer ex-cons, and even some of the “Filthy Few”--the elite of the Hells Angels  who’ve committed extreme violence on behalf of their club. Eventually, at parties  staged behind heavily armed security, he meets legendary club members such as Chuck  Zito, Johnny Angel, and the godfather of all bikers, Ralph “Sonny” Barger. To blend  in with them, he gets full-arm ink; to win their respect, he vows to prove himself  a stone-cold killer.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Hardest of all is leading a double life, which has him torn  between his devotion to his wife and children, and his pledge to become the first  federal agent ever to be “fully patched” into the Angels’ near-impregnable ranks.  His act is so convincing that he comes within a hairsbreadth of losing himself.   Eventually, he realizes that just as he’s been infiltrating the Hells Angels, they’ ve been infiltrating him. And just as they’re not all bad, he’s not all good.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Reminiscent  of Donnie Brasco’s uncovering of the true Mafia, this is an eye-opening portrait  of the world of bikers--the most in-depth since Hunter Thompson’s seminal work—one  that fully describes the seductive lure criminal camaraderie has for men who would  otherwise be powerless outsiders. Here is all the nihilism, hate, and intimidation,  but also the freedom—and, yes, brotherhood—of the only truly American form of organized  crime.\"Compulsively page-turning. The true story of Jay Dobyns, all-American dad and undercover cop running and gunning with the most dangerous outlaws in the USA. A high-velocity trip into a frightening American underworld told in rapid-fire, hard-boiled prose.\" \u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Evan Wright, author of the national bestseller \u003ci\u003eGeneration Kill\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e“\u003ci\u003eNo Angel\u003c\/i\u003e pushes narrative nonfiction to new limits…If you wondered whether the bravura writing of Truman Capote and Hunter S. Thompson has a legacy, look no further. Dobyns leads us into the wacky, white world of the Hell's Angels, and with empathy and precision forces us to admit that bikers are all-too human.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Sudhir Venkatesh, author of \u003ci\u003eGang Leader for a Day: A Rogue Sociologist Takes to the Streets\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Jay Dobyns is a hero.  Out of a sense of duty, he closed his eyes and made a journey into Hell.  For two years he walked through the valley of the shadow of death, but thankfully, he lived to tell this riveting story.  Highly recommended!”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e —William “Billy” Queen, Special Agent ATF, Ret. and \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author of \u003ci\u003eUnder and Alone\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e“A wild ride to the dark side. Jay Dobyns roars through the gritty underworld of organized crime that you never see in TV cop shows or read in the newspaper. He reveals the true, violent face of outlaw bikers—but also the tortured souls of the undercover cops who dare to infiltrate them.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Julian Sher, co-author \u003ci\u003eAngels of Death: Inside the Bikers’ Global Crime Empire \u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"\u003ci\u003eNo Angel\u003c\/i\u003e is an absolutely amazing account of one man's willingness to go above and beyond. Jay Dobyns, his team and those like them live life on the edge in an environment most can only imagine. This book provides a rare opportunity to share in the intensity, feel the adrenaline rush, smell the fear, and admire true courage and dedication.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Michael Durant, author of the \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestseller\u003ci\u003e In the Company of Heroes\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “\u003c\/b\u003eUnprecedented and unputdownable…Most people reading this book would assume that it must be a novel since no human being could possibly be involved in so much action. However, this is the true story of a very special covert ATF agent who over decades immersed himself in the most violent and criminal culture known to law enforcement. Even as a former US Army Special Forces Operator and Police SWAT team leader, I found myself in awe of his death-defying exploits.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Dr. Richard Carmona, 17th Surgeon General of the United States\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e“Ask yourself this question: would you put your life on the line for a cause? Jay Dobyns did. This book lets you experience some of the most dangerous activities of the best known biker gang in the world. Jay Dobyns brought honor to the ATF and is a true American hero.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—T.J. Leyden, author of \u003ci\u003eSkinhead Confessions\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cb\u003eJAY DOBYNS \u003c\/b\u003eis a highly decorated agent who worked for the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco,  and Firearms (ATF) for more than twenty years. For his work on Operation Black Biscuit,  he was awarded the ATF Distinguished Service Medal and also a prestigious Top Cops  award from the National Association of Police Officers. Find him online at JayDobyns.com.  \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003eNILS JOHNSON-SHELTON\u003c\/b\u003e, unlike Jay Dobyns,  has never been a cop and can’t even  ride a motorcycle. This is his first book.Part 1\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eChapter 1 Birdcalls\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eJUNE 25 AND 26, 2003\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTimmy leaned casually against the rear fender of my black Mercury Cougar, a cell phone on his ear and a smile on his face. The bastard wastypically calm. Twelve months I’d been his partner, in and out of harm’sway, both together and alone, and the guy never looked stressed. Hewas as self- possessed as a rooster in a hen house—my polar opposite.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI paced in front of him, rehearsing what I was going to tell our Hells Angels brothers. I shook the last smoke out of a pack of Newports. “Shit.” I lit the cigarette, crumpled the pack, and threw it to the ground. It was 10:00 a.m. and I’d already emptied the first pack of the carton I’d bought that morning.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTimmy said into his phone, “I love you too honey cake. I should be home soon.” He’d been saying things like that going on five minutes. I stared at him and said, “The fuck, stud? Come on.” \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTimmy put a finger in the air and continued on the phone. “OK. Gotta run. Love you guys. OK. See you tonight.” He snapped his phone closed. “What’s the drama, Bird? We got this.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Oh, you know. Nothing really.” I pointed at the guy lying facedown at our feet. “Just that if they don’t buy it, then we’ll end up like this  asshole.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThere, in a shallow desert ditch, was a gray- haired Caucasian male, his head split to the white meat. A pile of brains had oozed to the ground where Timmy had put Joby’s .380. Blood droplets, sprayed into the sand and dirt, made small, dark constellations. His blue jeans were splattered with purple, quarter- sized splotches. His wrists and ankles were bound with duct tape, his hands were limp. It was already over 100 degrees and the promise of coagulated blood and exposed matter had begun to attract flies.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe wore a black leather jacket whose top rocker, that curved cloth patch that spanned the shoulder blades, read mongols.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI asked, “You think he’s dead?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTimmy said, “Dude looks deader’n disco. Shit, those look like his brains in the dirt.” Timmy leaned in closer. “Yeah, I’d say he’s pretty dead.” He spat a stream of phlegm into the brush beyond the grave.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Dude, no fucking around here. We go home and show the boys we killed a Mongol, then we better be dead- nuts sure it doesn’t look like he’s coming back.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTimmy smiled. “Relax, Bird, we got this. Like Lionel Richie said, we’re easy like Sunday mornin’.” And then he started to sing. Badly:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eWhy in the world \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003ewould anybody put chains on me? \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eI’ve paid my dues to make it. \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eEverybody wants me to be \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003ewhat they want me to be. \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eI’m not happy when I try to fake it! \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eOoh, \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eThat’s why I’m easy. \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eYeah. I’m easy like Sunday mornin’.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI smiled and said, “You’re right, you’re right. And even if you aren’t, I don’t see how it matters. We’ve come too far.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe thought about that for a second. “Yeah, we have.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWe threw a couple shovels of dirt on our corpse and took some pictures. We relieved him of his Mongol jacket, stuffing it in a FedEx box. We got in the car and headed home, to Phoenix.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTimmy drove. I made some phone calls.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI lit a cigarette and waited for someone to pick up at the clubhouse. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eInhale. Hold it in. Click.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The voice said, “Skull Valley.” \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI said, “Bobby, it’s Bird.” \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Bird. What the fuck?” \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Teddy there?” \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Not now, no.” Bobby Reinstra’s voice was humorless and empty. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“We’re on our way back.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“‘We’ who?” \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eInhale. Hold it in. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI said, “Me and Timmy.” \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“No Pops?” \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“No Pops. He stayed down in Mexico.” \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“So Pops is gone.” I heard him light a cigarette— he’d only started smoking again since he’d met me. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Yeah, dude.” \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Wow.” Bobby smoked. Inhaled. Held it in. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI said, “We should probably talk about this later, don’t you think?” \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe snapped out of it. “Yeah. Yeah, of course. When’ll you be back?” \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Soon. I’ll call when we’re back in the valley.” \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“OK. Get home safe.” \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“We will. Don’t worry. I’ll see you tomorrow.” \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“OK. Later.” \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Later.” \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI flipped my cell shut and turned to Timmy. I said, “He bit it. Pops’s death should work to our advantage.” \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTimmy barely nodded. He was probably thinking about his wife and kids. Above all else, Timmy was decent. I looked past him. The asphalt and brown California pines, the late- afternoon grid of Phoenix, Arizona, moved beyond him like a sunset movie backdrop.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe next afternoon, JJ, Timmy, and I chowed at a Pizza Hut. We hadn’t seen Bobby or any of the other boys yet. We wanted their tension to build.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eJJ’s phone rang. She looked at the ID, then at me. I shrugged, stuffed a pepperoni slice in my mouth, and nodded.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe flipped open. “Hello?” She grinned. “Hi, Bobby. No, I haven’t heard from him. You have? When? What’d he say? He said \u003ci\u003ewhat?! \u003c\/i\u003eBobby, what the fuck do you mean? Pops is—\u003ci\u003ePops is dead?\u003c\/i\u003e” She lowered her voice and choked out the words with a frightened stutter. “Bobby, you’re scaring me! I don’t \u003ci\u003eknow\u003c\/i\u003e what the fuck’s going on. All I know is a FedEx box came to the house this morning. It was sent from Nogales, Mexico.” She pulled the phone away from her ear and placed a slice of roasted green pepper in her mouth. She sipped more iced tea. “No way, Bobby! I’m not opening shit. No. Forget it. Not until Bird gets back.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eJJ’s fear was convincing and effective. Our plan seemed to be  working.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI leaned into the leather banquette. We weren’t your average- looking cops— we weren’t even your average- looking undercover cops— and we painted quite a picture. Timmy and I were bald, muscular, and covered in tattoos. JJ was cute, buxom, and focused. My eyes were blue and always lit up, Timmy’s brown and wise, JJ’s green and eager. Each of my long, bony fingers was armored with silver rings depicting things like skulls and talons and lightning bolts. My long, straggly goatee was haphazardly twisted into a ragged braid. JJ and I wore white wife- beater tank tops and Timmy wore a black, sleeveless T- shirt that said skull valley—graveyard crew over the heart. I wore green camo cargo pants and flip- flops, and they wore jeans and riding boots. We each openly carried at least one firearm. Arizona’s open- carry, so there you go.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eJJ continued. “No way, Bobby. I’m not coming over there with the box. I’m waiting till Bird gets home. All right. All right. Bye.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe hung up. She turned back to us and asked sarcastically, “So, honey, when can I expect you?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI grinned and said, “Any time, now. Any time.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“OK! Can’t wait!”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWe laughed and finished our lunch. We’d been running ragged for months and were in the homestretch. With any luck, Timmy and I were about to become full- patch Hells Angels, and JJ was about to become a real- life HA old lady\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWith any luck.The New York Times Bestseller","brand":"Crown","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46300231794917,"sku":"NP9780307405869","price":20.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780307405869.jpg?v=1767733779","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/no-angel-isbn-9780307405869","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}