Acclaimed author Cindy Fazzi takes readers on an action-packed ride full of wit and grit, as an immigrant turned recovery agent tracks down his most elusive assignment…and learns her explosive secret.
Intrigued? Well read on to discover the synopsis and an excerpt from Cindy Fazzi’s Danger No Problem, which is out September 9th 2025.
Domingo’s latest job is to bring in Monica Reed. Again. In all his years as a bounty hunter, Monica’s the only target who’s ever given him the slip—and the only one he’s ever let go.
Domingo takes his work seriously, rooting out fugitives who have no regard for the law. Added bonus: it gives him plenty of fodder for the book he’s writing on the side.
As Domingo works to flush out Monica for the third time, he uncovers more layers to her story. Dark secrets, hidden sacrifices, and shocking discoveries point to a dangerous truth she’ll risk her life to expose. Now Domingo must decide which side he’s actually on.
Drawing on the author’s own experience as an immigrant, Danger No Problem is an action-packed, humor-laden look at the pursuit of dreams and the desire for belonging.
The following is an exclusive excerpt from Danger No Problem by Cindy Fazzi. Thomas & Mercer will release the novel and its sequel, Sunday or the Highway, simultaneously on Sept. 9, 2025. The following passage introduces Domingo Laban, a Filipino American bounty hunter, right before he embarks on a search for an elusive quarry he’s trying to catch for the third time.
THE PRESENT
What It Means to Be Undocumented in America
If you have neither the birth certificate nor the passport to prove you belong in the US of A, you’re undocumented, a.k.a. illegal. You have a visa? Lucky. But if you stay a second longer than the date stamped on it, you’re illegal. Americans have many names for you: undocumented immigrant, overstaying tourist, illegal alien, migrant, deportable, removable, wetback, loser, parasite, criminal.
Frankly, those names are inadequate. They can’t even begin to describe your situation. For this reason, I’ve invented my own special terms. First, multo, meaning “ghost” in Filipino. You know why? Undocumented immigrants, like ghosts, can be invisible. Some people can see them as clearly as the little kid in The Sixth Sense can see Bruce Willis. Others simply can’t or won’t. Ghosts can appear or disappear, just like immigrants on the run.
Second, desperate hopefuls. You desperately cling to the hope of belonging in this country someday. Maybe you’ve been deported before, but you came back. Most likely you’ll get kicked out again. That won’t stop you from trying again and again because desperate hopefuls never quit. Plain hope comes with a prayer, a sigh, and nothing more. It’s a housebroken puppy, while desperate hope is a rabid dog. It knows no bounds and heeds no one.
How do I know this? I’m an immigrant like you. I’m a bail enforcement agent who catches criminal undocumented immigrants. I’m the best in the business, which means I’m your worst nightmare—or your best friend if you listen to every damn word I say.
***
Domingo stared at his handwriting, then at his wristwatch: five minutes before nine and already scorching. He’d parked the rental car outside the gated mansion because he’d come too early.
At least he’d made the most of the wait. A few more paragraphs of his handbook or memoir or whatever it was going to be. He wasn’t sure yet, but he’d made up his mind to write everything he knew about illegals. Not just a diary but something worth reading and keeping. Like a self-help book or an underground guide that would be passed around in secret. A must-read for anyone planning to cross the brutal Sonoran Desert or sail across the treacherous waters of the Gulf of Mexico. It might save someone’s life someday.
He wrote in a little notepad because he couldn’t get used to writing on his smartphone. He was forty, old school, stubborn, and married to no one and nothing but his old habits.
Time to get to work. He shoved the pad and pen inside the glove compartment, started the car, and drove toward the gate. The property, located outside Columbus, was secluded.
He pushed the button on the intercom. “This is Domingo. I have a nine o’clock appointment with Mrs. Reed.” One call from the supermarket-chain heiress had sent him scrambling to Ohio. Money worked in not-so-mysterious ways.
“Domingo?” a woman’s voice crackled.
“Sunday. It’s Sunday,” he corrected himself. Americanizing his name had seemed the right thing to do in 1998 when he got his much-coveted US citizenship. With a name like Domingo Laban, he stood out as badly as a sweat stain on a white shirt. He’d tried Americanizing his full name—Sunday Fight. It sounded like a boxing match for losers where he wasn’t even the main event but the undercard. And so he went by Sunday only. It still sounded stupid, but he was stuck with it, just as Coke was stuck with its cocaine-inspired brand.
“Oh, Sunday. The bounty hunter, right?”
“I’m a licensed bail enforcement agent.” As a law enforcement professional, he deserved the same respect as a cop or a sheriff’s deputy. He worked just as hard and got in harm’s way just as much as those guys.
The gate buzzed open.
He parked in the long driveway and got out of the car. He didn’t know anybody in Ohio aside from the Reeds. He rarely met with clients, but this was a special case. He spent 90 percent of his waking hours hunting down illegals who had been convicted of crimes more serious than entering the country without proper authorization. Most of them hid in big cities, usually on either the East or the West Coast, where they blended in without a problem. Ohio was a fluke. He knew the Reeds courtesy of Cutter, a military veteran who had worked at Clark Air Base in the Philippines during the Vietnam War, when the base had served as a major US logistics hub. Cutter had recommended Domingo to General Leonard Reed. Domingo’s reputation, a most precious commodity he nurtured, preceded him.
He glanced down at his black blazer and khaki pants. Too hot for a jacket in the summer heat, but he wanted to look professional. He pulled out a business card from his wallet. Over the years, he must have given out hundreds of these cards like little breadcrumbs. But unlike the crumbs in Hansel and Gretel, Domingo’s trail of business cards brought him new contacts and cases.
He strode toward the huge colonial-style house. He ignored the brass knocker and pressed an inconspicuous doorbell instead. A rotund woman opened the door. “Hello, Sunday. Come in. Remember me?”
“Rosie? How are you?” She didn’t need his business card, but he gave it to her so he could shake her hand. She’d been part of a cadre of helpers since forever. Her face now bore some age spots. Her hair had turned gray, though her smile remained warm. She’d always been friendly.
She studied his business card. “‘Immigrants Bail Bonds Agency,’” she read out loud. “‘Anywhere, anytime. Danger no problem.’”
“Yep, that’s me. I came up with that slogan myself.” He beamed. Any business worth its salt needed a motto. Would Nike be Nike without Just do it? No way. KFC’s It’s finger lickin’ good never failed to conjure up a bucket of extra-crispy fried chicken.
She opened the door wider. “I’ll let Mrs. Reed know you’re here.”
***
Copyright © 2025 Cindy Fazzi. Reproduced with permission from the publisher. All rights reserved.
