The law can’t touch them. But she can.
Ex-nun Nadine Singh traded violence for a quiet life, until a widow’s plea pulls her back in. Hunting a ruthless romance scammer, Nadine traces the digital breadcrumbs to Ghana and infiltrates a criminal empire.
But this is more than a heist. She uncovers a plot involving a global surveillance weapon. Outnumbered and betrayed, Nadine faces a deadly game across two continents. The scammers thought they were hunting a victim. They just invited the tiger to dinner.
The law can’t touch them. But she can.
Nadine Singh fought hard for her quiet life in the California suburbs. As a former nun with a blood-soaked history of vigilante justice, she thought she had finally traded her knife for a trowel. But silence is a luxury she can’t afford when Margaret Chen, an elderly widow, is left destitute by a ruthless romance scammer. The police call it a “civil matter” buried under untouchable jurisdictions. Nadine calls it a target.
Shedding her retirement, Nadine follows the digital trail to the sweltering heat of Accra, Ghana. There, she locates the nerve center of the operation: a gleaming, fortress-like high-rise owned by the enigmatic Philip Sorkin. To destroy the rot, she must enter the beast’s belly. Posing as a naive, wealthy traveler, Nadine infiltrates Sorkin’s inner circle.
However, the mission quickly escalates beyond simple restitution. While hunting for Margaret’s savings, Nadine uncovers a terrifying truth: Sorkin isn’t just running a scam farm. He is financing a global surveillance algorithm designed to weaponize personal data on a mass scale.
Suddenly, Nadine is miles from home, outnumbered by a private army, and stung by the betrayal of the one local ally she trusted. Trapped in a deadly game of cat-and-mouse across two continents, Sorkin believes he has cornered a helpless woman. He doesn’t realize he just invited the tiger to dinner.
THE SANTA CLARITA sun was a relentless tyrant, but inside Nadine Singh’s small, tidy bungalow, the air was cool and still.
Her fingers tapped a steady rhythm on the keys until a new email pinged, pulling her attention away from the screen. The subject line was stark: Please help my grandmother.
Nadine read the desperate plea from a young man named Jason. His grandmother, Margaret Chen, had lost everything to romance scammers. A cold knot formed in Nadine's stomach. She picked up her phone and dialed.
"Hello, Margaret Chen?"
"Who is this?" The voice was frail, barely a whisper.
"My name is Nadine. I want to help you."
"I... I just don't want to talk about it," Margaret cried, her voice cracking. "I'm so ashamed. How could I have been so foolish?"
"You weren't foolish," Nadine said, her tone hardening with a quiet fury. "You were targeted. These people are predators."
"The money... it was for my grandchildren," Margaret whimpered. "It was everything. My husband and I worked our whole lives for that. One hundred and eighty thousand dollars."
Nadine listened as Margaret recounted the story of "Captain Mark Williams," a kind-eyed man who messaged her on Facebook. He professed love. He needed money for a medical evacuation. She sent it all.
The call ended. Nadine sat for a long moment. The peace she had sought in retirement was gone, replaced by a righteous fury. She wasn't just going to sit and wait. She was going to find the people who did this.
THE CALL CENTER in Accra was a hive of buzzing energy.
Fluorescent lights flickered above fifty young men and women hunched over worn-out headsets. In his air-conditioned office, separated from the noise by a pane of glass, Philip Sorkin felt like a king.
"Yeah, business is booming," Philip said, sipping expensive whiskey. "You give them a sob story about a poor soldier, and boom—they open their wallets."
He walked out onto the main floor and stopped at the desk of a young man named Kwame.
"How's it going?" Philip asked.
Kwame pointed to a line item on his screen. "Margaret Chen. A hundred and eighty thousand. A good haul."
"What did we tell her?"
"A captain in the U.S. Army," Kwame said. "She really believed he loved her."
"Of course she did," Philip sneered. "That’s what they all do. The more pathetic the story, the more they fall for it."
Philip patted Kwame on the shoulder. "Keep it up. Just another sucker."
He turned back to his office. The business of a king never stops, and in this gold-plated cage of his own making, he felt completely untouchable.
THE CALL CENTER in Accra was a hive of buzzing energy.
Fluorescent lights flickered above fifty young men and women hunched over worn-out headsets. In his air-conditioned office, separated from the noise by a pane of glass, Philip Sorkin felt like a king.
"Yeah, business is booming," Philip said, sipping expensive whiskey. "You give them a sob story about a poor soldier, and boom—they open their wallets."
He walked out onto the main floor and stopped at the desk of a young man named Kwame.
"How's it going?" Philip asked.
Kwame pointed to a line item on his screen. "Margaret Chen. A hundred and eighty thousand. A good haul."
"What did we tell her?"
"A captain in the U.S. Army," Kwame said. "She really believed he loved her."
"Of course she did," Philip sneered. "That’s what they all do. The more pathetic the story, the more they fall for it."
Philip patted Kwame on the shoulder. "Keep it up. Just another sucker." He turned back to his office. The business of a king never stops, and in this gold-plated cage of his own making, he felt completely untouchable. was Helen Farnsworth. And she was going to make them pay.
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