The gang squad was located in the basement of the 23rd precinct. It was no more than a dusty little hole, really; the cracks in the cement walls covered up by pictures of dirty, unshaven bikers. The first time I ever scrambled down those stairs to meet with Sergeant Grant Maloney, I felt like I was descending into hell itself.

I wasn’t sure why Maloney took an instant dislike to me, at least not in the beginning. Then he tried to get me to suck his cock, and when I refused, he left me for dead in the middle of an encampment of notorious bikers. Let’s say I figured it out in a hurry. But I’m getting ahead of myself here.

The fact that my dad was the Police Commissioner didn’t endear me to anyone on the force. The other cops either thought I was a stoolie for the brass or was somehow given special privileges, especially when I made detective three years after I’d graduated from the academy. The truth was, I was damned good at my job; growing up with a cop father who ate and breathed police work gave me no choice but to eat and breathe it, too.

I thought it would be different down here with the gang squad. They were the Motley Crüe of police. The majority of them looked as unkempt as the men in the pictures on the wall, and they were all facing, or about to face, some disciplinary action from Internal Affairs for something or other. Hell, I had to fit in here at least.

Boy, was I wrong. Just because my thick blond hair fell to my shoulders and my ears were pierced with two gold studs didn’t grant me instant acceptance to the gang squad. The fact that I took a shower every day instantly disqualified me in terms of personal hygiene. And of course they all knew who I was—Brian Fuller, the twenty-four-year-old son of Aniston Fuller, Police Commissioner.

What they didn’t know, however, was the reason I practically pole-vaulted into plainclothes. You see, I’d been pushed so deep into the closet because of my father’s macho homophobic bullshit that I would have hung myself a hell of a long time ago if it hadn’t been for the job. Since the time I was a teenager, my father had primed me for it. There was never any question about me being a cop. Spending long hours pouring over files and drinking bad coffee helped me to hide, deny, and survive.

So the day I met Grant Maloney, I had no idea that he was even deeper in the fucking closet than I was, and his secret would eventually put my life in great danger.

“You’re late, asswipe,” were the first words Maloney ever said to me. I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but it didn’t get much better.

“I’m sorry, Sir.”

“Fuller’s little boy.” He smiled.

The first thing I noticed was the thin, jagged scar that ran from his left eye to his lower jaw. He was not what you would call a good-looking man to begin with, and the scar didn’t help at all. He stood a few inches taller than I did, about six-two, and was sporting a little middle-age paunch. He wore a straggly salt and pepper beard and had his greasy hair tied back at the nape. Tattered blue jeans, a stained white T-shirt with a badge swinging off his beefy neck and a pair of shiny black cowboy boots completed the picture.

“Yes, I’m Brian Fuller,” I said, straightening up so that my five-eleven frame felt a little taller in front of his. I held out my hand.

He ignored it, plopping down into his chair behind his cluttered desk. “I’m Grant Maloney, your superior officer. You can call me Sergeant.”

“Yes, Sir.”

He ran his gaze over me. “I hear you’re a good cop.”

“I’d like to think so.”

“Um, we’ll see. This is the real dope down here. No place for sissy boys.”

I stiffened. “I’m not...a...sissy boy, Sir.” No one knew I was gay. In fact, I went out of my way to make sure I never did anything that could even be construed as gay.

“Don’t worry, kid, if you’re a faggot, we’ll soon find out,” he growled. “Come with me.” He got up and walked out of the office.

I followed, a little wary.

He pointed at the pictures of various members of the notorious Diablo gang hanging on the wall. Diablo was Spanish for devil, and some of them did look demonic. Maloney was asking me what I knew about this one and that one. I had made a point of scrutinizing all their files before being transferred and quickly supplied all the information I knew by memory on each one.

If he was impressed, he didn’t say so.

“The new leader, they call him Ice. His real name is Estevan Dias. What do you know about him, Fuller?” Maloney demanded. There were other cops standing around in the stuffy little room looking at us with interest. I could hear one of them laugh softly.

“Nothing,” I said, sucking in a breath. If this was some kind of a test, I was about to fail it. “I don’t know anything about him, except that he recently became the leader of the Diablos. He succeeded the one they called Bulldog. Bulldog got knifed in an alley last summer. It’s presumed that Ice challenged him for leadership, but there’s no proof of that.”

“That’s as much as we all know.” Maloney nodded. “We had an undercover guy in the gang for six years before Bulldog died. The minute Bulldog was dead, so was the snitch.”

“What about sending in someone else, or trying to make a deal with one of the lower-ranked members?” I asked.

There was some laughter behind us. I cast a glance over my shoulder to see two rough-looking cops giggling like schoolgirls.

“Who in the hell do you think we’re dealing with here, Fuller?” Maloney barked at me. “This guy’s a killer. He’d spot a snitch a mile away. You’d be sending the guy to his own funeral.”

It got quiet.

The more time went on, the more I got the impression that everyone was scared shitless of this phantom gang leader called Ice.