No Angel: My Harrowing Undercover Journey to the Inner Circle of the Hells Angels

by Jay Dobyns, Nils Johnson-Shelton Narrated by Mel Foster

Overview

Getting shot in the chest as a rookie ATF agent, bartering for machine guns, throttling down the highway at 100 miles per hour, 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 Jay Dobyns recounts in this action-packed, hard to imagine, but true story of how he infiltrated the legendary Hells Angels.



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.



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.



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.

Editorial Reviews

One of the chief wonders of this book is that Jay Dobyns lived to write it. No Angel follows this still-young federal agent as he infiltrates a Hell's Angels motorcycle club; becomes a "full-patch" member; takes a bullet in the chest; rides high, wide, and fast in a biker posse; participates in a biker brawl; helps stage a faked assassination; and much, much more.

Publishers Weekly

In this white-knuckler, ATF agent Dobyns infiltrates a chapter of the Hells Angels to show that, aside from much of the romance surrounding the group, it is indeed a violent gang. His investigations lead him through a fascinating cast of crystal meth-heads, gun runners, gang rapists and frauds. Dobyns and co-writer Johnson-Shelton tell a bracing story in straightforward prose that doesn't dilute any aspect of the toll his undercover act (a sprawling long-term investigation that penetrated deeper into the gang than any other) took on his life. A family guy who frequently finds himself taking calls from his worried wife while in the middle of an operation, Dobyns is brutally honest about how far his assignment takes him into the dark side and leaves the impression at the end that it's highly unlikely he will ever be able to totally return to undercover work (Hunter S. Thompson was beaten up while writing his 1967 take on the gang in Hell's Angels). From the medieval desert clan gatherings to breakneck-paced highway odysseys and high-noon showdowns, this is the real deal from an agent whose knack for the job and ability to transform it into elucidating reading recalls the story of Joe Pistone, aka Donnie Brasco. (Feb.)

Copyright © Reed Business Information, a division of Reed Elsevier Inc. All rights reserved.

Kirkus Reviews

Veteran ATF agent Dobyns's account of his infiltration into the Hells Angels reveals the violence, paranoia and numbing boredom of the bikers' world. He entered that world in 2001 in Arizona as Jay "Bird" Davis, with a prefabricated reputation as a gun dealer, enforcer and hit man. His goal was to build a case that the Angels controlled criminal activity among bikers in that state so that charges might be brought against them. To do this he needed to gain their trust, which he quickly did. With his tattoos, greasy hair and, of course, Harley-Davidson motorcycle, he looked like them. With his apparent nihilistic rage and willingness at all times to commit violence, especially in protection of his brother Angels, he acted like them. But in reality, nothing much happened. Dobyns made minor gun deals, bought small amounts of drugs, gathered and recorded evidence bit by bit. His brother bikers seemed to spend their time drinking beer and cheap whiskey, having sex with women who more often than not were burned-out meth addicts. They held endless meetings over huge piles of waffles at greasy diners. For all their rebel persona, the Angels had more rules than a convent or a corporation. But the violence, while mostly implied, was definitely there. Dobyns learned of a shootout in a bar between the Angels and their hated rivals the Mongols. He heard of a woman stomped to death at an Angels clubhouse for disrespecting them. Still, inevitably and predictably, Jay became Bird, and his suburban home, wife and kids became traps he wished to escape so he could return to his brother outlaws, among whom he found perverse love and protection. In the end, though many charges were filed against the Angels,there were few convictions. Bird returned to being Jay, having learned that the Angels are not all bad and he is not all good. A good yarn better told in Joe Pistone's Donnie Brasco(1987), as well as Alex Caine's forthcoming Befriend and Betray. Film rights to Twentieth Century Fox, with Tony Scott to direct

From the Publisher

"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." 
—Evan Wright, author of the national bestseller Generation Kill

“No Angel 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.”
—Sudhir Venkatesh, author of Gang Leader for a Day: A Rogue Sociologist Takes to the Streets

“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!”
 —William “Billy” Queen, Special Agent ATF, Ret. and New York Times bestselling author of Under and Alone

“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.”
—Julian Sher, co-author Angels of Death: Inside the Bikers’ Global Crime Empire

"No Angel 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.”
—Michael Durant, author of the New York Times bestseller In the Company of Heroes

 “Unprecedented 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.”
—Dr. Richard Carmona, 17th Surgeon General of the United States

“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.”
—T.J. Leyden, author of Skinhead Confessions

Product Details

BN ID:	2940170687572
Publisher:	Tantor Audio
Publication date:	04/09/2009
Edition description:	Unabridged
Sales rank:	1,193,137

Read an Excerpt

Part 1

Chapter 1 Birdcalls

JUNE 25 AND 26, 2003

Timmy 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.

I 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.

Timmy 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.”

Timmy 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.”

“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.”

There, 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.

He wore a black leather jacket whose top rocker, that curved cloth patch that spanned the shoulder blades, read mongols.

I asked, “You think he’s dead?”

Timmy 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.

“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.”

Timmy smiled. “Relax, Bird, we got this. Like Lionel Richie said, we’re easy like Sunday mornin’.” And then he started to sing. Badly:

Why in the world
would anybody put chains on me?
I’ve paid my dues to make it.
Everybody wants me to be
what they want me to be.
I’m not happy when I try to fake it!
Ooh,
That’s why I’m easy.
Yeah. I’m easy like Sunday mornin’.

I 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.”

He thought about that for a second. “Yeah, we have.”

We 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.

Timmy drove. I made some phone calls.

I lit a cigarette and waited for someone to pick up at the clubhouse.

Inhale. Hold it in. Click.

The voice said, “Skull Valley.”

I said, “Bobby, it’s Bird.”

“Bird. What the fuck?”

“Teddy there?”

“Not now, no.” Bobby Reinstra’s voice was humorless and empty.

“We’re on our way back.”

“‘We’ who?”

Inhale. Hold it in.

I said, “Me and Timmy.”

“No Pops?”

“No Pops. He stayed down in Mexico.”

“So Pops is gone.” I heard him light a cigarette— he’d only started smoking again since he’d met me.

“Yeah, dude.”

“Wow.” Bobby smoked. Inhaled. Held it in.

I said, “We should probably talk about this later, don’t you think?”

He snapped out of it. “Yeah. Yeah, of course. When’ll you be back?”

“Soon. I’ll call when we’re back in the valley.”

“OK. Get home safe.”

“We will. Don’t worry. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“OK. Later.”

“Later.”

I flipped my cell shut and turned to Timmy. I said, “He bit it. Pops’s death should work to our advantage.”

Timmy 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.

The 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.

JJ’s phone rang. She looked at the ID, then at me. I shrugged, stuffed a pepperoni slice in my mouth, and nodded.

She flipped open. “Hello?” She grinned. “Hi, Bobby. No, I haven’t heard from him. You have? When? What’d he say? He said what?! Bobby, what the fuck do you mean? Pops is—Pops is dead?” She lowered her voice and choked out the words with a frightened stutter. “Bobby, you’re scaring me! I don’t know 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.”

JJ’s fear was convincing and effective. Our plan seemed to be working.

I 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.

JJ 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.”

She hung up. She turned back to us and asked sarcastically, “So, honey, when can I expect you?”

I grinned and said, “Any time, now. Any time.”

“OK! Can’t wait!”

We 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

With any luck.

Videos