Female Vigilante Thriller: BAD HABIT - Ex-Nun Nadine Singh Hunts Predators | Book 1
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Female Vigilante Thriller: BAD HABIT - Ex-Nun Nadine Singh Hunts Predator | Book 1
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Female Vigilante Thriller: BAD HABIT (A Nadine Singh Thriller, #1)

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She Left the Convent. She Kept the Glock.

Some habits are hard to break—especially for an ex-nun carrying a Glock.

Nadine Singh was just looking for a low-profile way out of town. But when a routine stop turns lethal, a clerk ends up dead, sirens start blaring, and Nadine is left standing over a body with a smoking firearm.

Worst of all, there’s a witness.

She could have silenced him right then, but she’s no cold-blooded killer—the moral code from her days in the convent won’t allow it.

Fleeing into the Arizona night, Nadine tries to leave the carnage behind. But the witness saw her face. He knows what she did. And he’s actively helping the police with a terrifying, photographic memory.

Then comes the twist she never saw coming: the witness isn’t a helpless bystander. He’s something far worse.

A child predator.

Now, she’s not just an ex-nun on the run from the law—she’s the hunter. And she has to eliminate this monster before the police catch up to them both.

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A Nadine Singh Thriller

Bad Habit

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Chapter 1

THE COLD NIGHT pressed against the windows of the '65 Mustang like a warning. Wind funneled down the empty streets, pushing trash in spirals and howling low through the alleys like a wounded thing. The city beyond the windshield flickered like a dying signal—Santa Rosa, jagged and hostile, its skyline stitched together by broken neon and empty promises. Nadine Singh hunched over the wheel, dark hair hanging in greasy strands that hadn’t seen shampoo in days. The cracked vinyl seat stuck to her back through a sweat-damp shirt, every movement peeling her from the upholstery like dead skin. Her knuckles were bone-white on the wheel, tendons standing out like cables under strain. The engine idled with a predator’s purr, daring her to make a move. She hadn’t eaten in two days. Maybe three. Time had become elastic, meaningless. The last thing in her stomach was a vending machine coffee from a rest stop outside Amarillo—bitter, burnt, and laced with chemicals that still turned her insides sour. Her mouth tasted like copper pennies and desperation. But it wasn't hunger gnawing at her. It was the fear. Not fear of dying. That would've been easy. A relief, even. This fear was older. The kind that clung to your spine like cold sweat and whispered during the darkest hours before dawn: you’ve crossed the line now—and there’s no going back. She wiped a trembling hand across her forehead, feeling the salt sting of old sweat mixed with new panic. She checked the rearview mirror. No sirens. No headlights. Just the vast, empty dark behind her. And ahead—more of the same uncertainty. The sign blinked to life in the distance like a curse: BENNY’S LIQUOR. A neon clown with a cracked smile clutched a bottle like a weapon. Red tears glowed in his eyes, casting bloody shadows across the asphalt beside a faded slogan: Raise your spirits. Nadine didn’t smile. Joy was a foreign concept, something remembered from another lifetime. To the world, she was Maria Santos. No one knew her real name except Sister Anita, who had named her as an infant. There was something clean about that name: Nadine Singh. One day she’d reclaim it. But tonight, she wouldn’t drag it through the gutter of what she’d become over the last six years—or what she planned to do in the next six minutes. She killed the headlights and coasted into the shadow beside the dumpster. The Mustang hissed as it cooled, metal contracting with sharp pops that sounded like distant gunfire. Her breath fogged the windshield, each exhale another ghost she didn't want to see. She sat motionless, fingers locked on the wheel, staring at that grotesque sign. Then she reached for the glovebox. ⁠Continue Reading Bad Habit Nowâ