Lights, Camera, Gun Fight: The North Hollywood Shootout – Part 2

Officer John Caprarelli had been sitting just south of Victory Boulevard, radar gun balanced on his knee, watching commuters drift ten or fifteen miles over the limit. Nothing dramatic. Just the usual morning mix of office workers in a hurry, landscapers hauling trailers, and half-awake drivers nursing coffee cups. He had written one citation already and was thinking about grabbing another when a frantic burst of radio traffic cracked through his unit.

Possible two eleven at the Bank of America on Laurel Canyon. Raised voices. Something tight in the dispatcher’s tone.

He lowered the radar gun. Before he could reach for the shifter, he heard it. A long, rolling burst of gunfire that did not sound like any pistol or shotgun he had ever heard on patrol. It carried across the streets in loud bursts.

Automatic gunfire.

He dropped the radar gun into the passenger seat, hit the lights, and drove hard toward the noise.

As he approached the intersection, broken glass glittered across the street like ice. A cruiser sat half-crippled in the parking lot with smoke rising from its hood. Another car had its windows shot out. People lay behind wheel wells and concrete planters. Some were moving. Some were not. Officers. Civilians. It was impossible to tell who was who at first glance.

Then he saw the gunmen.

Two men stood out in the open as calmly as if they were waiting for a bus. Balaclavas covered their faces. Heavy armor encased their torsos and groins. They moved with slow, deliberate precision, firing controlled bursts at anything that seemed to shift.

Caprarelli braked hard, pulled to the curb, and killed the engine. He scanned for cover and sprinted to a palm tree near the edge of the lot. Not great cover, but better than nothing. 

The rough bark scraped his shoulder as he pressed his back against it.

He took one breath. Then another.

All he had was his duty pistol. Nine millimeter. Fifteen rounds. No rifle. No heavy vest. Just the same patrol loadout he had worn every day for years.

He risked a look around the trunk of the palm.

One suspect was closer, moving along a row of cars. Big frame under black armor. Rifle up, steady, sending rounds toward a crippled cruiser. Caprarelli could not see the officers, but he knew from the angle that someone was pinned behind that engine block and running out of options.

The second suspect was farther out, drifting toward Laurel Canyon with a duffel hanging from his shoulder. He fired long bursts down the sidewalk, driving anyone in view deeper into cover.

The radio in Caprarelli’s ear crackled with chaos. Officers shouting updates. Civilians screaming in the background. Units from all over the Valley calling in that they were responding.

Then he heard the heavy thump of rotor blades.

He glanced up. An LAPD helicopter circled overhead, banking in a wide orbit.

The pilot’s voice transmitted clearly. “Ground units, Air Three. You have two suspects, both armored, both armed with automatic rifles. One near the northwest corner, one moving east. Shots fired in all directions.”

“Air Three, any civilians moving?” someone asked.

“Multiple casualties behind vehicles and walls. Hard to assess. They are taking heavy fire.”

Caprarelli shifted his grip on his pistol. He had no illusions. His shots would not punch through that armor. 

He broke cover and sighted in. The gunman was covered in armor. There were only openings near the armpits, neck, legs, and face. Small, moving targets.

The nearer gunman pivoted, raking fire toward a low cinderblock wall where someone was shouting into a radio. Chunks of concrete flew from the top edge. The gunman’s left arm swung wide for a fraction of a second.

Caprarelli exhaled and squeezed the trigger.

The pistol cracked once. He rocked back with the recoil and set in for another shot.

The gunman jerked. His rifle dipped. He staggered back. Dark fluid sprayed along the edge of his shoulder plate. He cursed and fought the weapon, but something jammed in the mechanism.

That was enough.

“Air Three to ground, good shot! It looks like you hit the suspect closest to the building,” the pilot reported.

The wounded man suddenly whirled toward the sky and raised his rifle.

“Air Three, you are taking fire!” an officer yelled.

The suspect opened up. Bright tracers climbed into the air, cutting faint arcs toward the helicopter. Caprarelli watched the rounds chase the aircraft as it banked sharply away.

“Air Three pulling back,” the pilot said, voice tight. “Taking multiple hits. We are going higher.”

The helicopter climbed, thinning into a distant thump. The suspect fired until the aircraft was out of reach, then shifted back toward the street.

He slung his damaged rifle and reached for another weapon from his duffle bag. 

The radio crackled again. “All units, Metro SWAT inbound. Five minutes out. Hold containment.”

Caprarelli frowned. These guys are going to do a lot of damage in five minutes.  He broke cover again and fired three more shots. 

More sirens approached. Patrol cars blocked intersections. Officers dragged wounded civilians behind sturdier cover. Two detectives sprinted across the sidewalk toward a small storefront marked by bold letters.

B&B Sales.

Sales Clerk from B and B Sales

The gun shop. They disappeared inside.

Gunfire roared again. The suspects shot at anything that moved, trying to keep officers pinned long enough to attempt an escape.

Then the detectives burst back out of B&B carrying rifles. AR type carbines. They handed them off to uniformed officers who had been hugging the curb.

Caprarelli watched one of those officers chamber a round and anchor himself behind an engine block. It was not much, but it was the first shift in firepower the officers had gotten since the first shots.

The wounded gunman near the lot tried to cross an open space between vehicles. He moved slower now, his injured arm locked close to his side.

Caprarelli leaned out and fired again. Once. Twice. One round hit the man’s leg. He dropped to a knee, snarled through gritted teeth, and pushed himself back up.

He returned fire in a wide, angry sweep. Rounds tore chunks from the palm tree. Bark and dust blasted across Caprarelli’s face. He ducked behind the trunk, coughing, eyes watering.

His hands shook. He forced them still.

Radio traffic shifted tone.

“Metro units arriving.”

White SWAT Suburbans roared up from the north. Operators spilled out quickly, armored and calm, carbines ready. They fanned across the lot, stacking behind cover and locking down angles the patrol officers had been unable to reach.

A SWAT sergeant came across the air with steady authority.

“All units, Metro has command of contact. Watch your geometry. We don’t want to get caught in a crossfire.”

The wounded gunman leaned against a sedan and tried to clear his jammed weapon hesitated. Blood soaked his sleeve and leg. His breathing labored. He looked smaller now. Less invincible.

His fingers slipped. He slammed it against the door in frustration.

Rifle fire from SWAT chipped metal around him and drove him to cover. He scanned for an escape route. He did not find one. He paused, shoulders rising, then lowering. His hand moved not to reload, but to the side of his head.

Caprarelli looked away for a heartbeat.

A single shot cracked. Different than the rifle fire. Flat. Final.

When he looked back, the gunman lay still behind the car.

Across the lot, the firefight shifted tone. The second suspect, trying to flee with the getaway car, had already taken rounds to the legs. Officers and SWAT operators circled him at a distance, firing from behind engines, walls, and wheel wells.

Caprarelli moved from the palm tree, staying low, weaving between parked cars. He reached the edge of the lot as the suspect’s car finally gave out. Smoke drifted from the engine. The windows were spiderwebbed with impacts.

The suspect lay beside the car, still armored, legs slick with blood. His rifle lay just out of reach. Officers with long guns covered him from multiple angles.

“Do not move,” a Metro operator shouted. “Do not reach for that weapon.”

The suspect tried to push himself up. His strength failed. He collapsed again. His breathing sounded ragged and wet. There was no fight left in him. Only the slow seep of blood.

Someone called for a rescue ambulance. Someone else shouted for a medic. Voices overlapped in a mix of anger, adrenaline, and exhaustion.

Overhead, the helicopter still circled, higher now, the rotor thump steady but distant. Sirens faded as units shut down lights. The sharp fury of automatic gunfire gave way to the rustle of gear, shouted instructions, and the heavy breathing of officers who had been fighting for their lives.

Caprarelli finally lowered his pistol. His hands trembled in the cooling air. He stared at the scene for a long moment, letting his mind catch up to what his body had just survived.

He let out a slow breath.

Then he stepped out from the shadow of the palm tree.

By 9:17 a.m. on February 28, 1997, the quiet stretch of Laurel Canyon Boulevard had turned into one of the most violent urban gunfights in American law enforcement history. Larry Phillips Jr. and Emil Matasareanu exited the Bank of America branch with far less money than they had expected. Their plan had called for more than seven hundred thousand dollars. The vault held only a fraction of that, and their frustration had already turned to violence.

The moment they stepped through the front doors, the fight widened. Responding patrol officers, armed only with 9 millimeter pistols and 12 gauge shotguns, found themselves hopelessly outmatched. The suspects wore custom-fitted body armor plating their torsos, groins, and limbs. Their rifles were Romanian AK variants and converted automatic weapons capable of sustained fire. In the first minutes of the engagement, the suspects discharged more than a thousand rounds.

As Phillips and Matasareanu began firing, officers returned fire where they could, but their sidearms could not penetrate the body armor. Rounds from the officers’ pistols flattened or veered off. Officers Farrell and Perello were among the first hit with suppressive fire, their patrol cruiser shot to pieces within seconds. Officers across the boulevard were forced behind engine blocks, truck axles, cinderblock walls, and even the curb edges just to survive the opening salvos.

The suspects attempted to move north and east, using vehicles for cover as they searched for an escape route. Their fire struck officers, civilians, passing vehicles, and storefronts. The gunmen walked calmly and deliberately, pausing only to reload or change firing angles. Witnesses described them as robotic in their movements, methodical and emotionless.

LAPD’s Air Support Division responded quickly. Air Three, piloted by Charles D. Perriguey Jr., orbited the scene and provided running commentary to officers on the ground. The helicopter's perspective gave units a sense of the suspects’ movements when visibility on the ground was obscured by smoke, debris, and angles of fire. But as the helicopter lowered altitude for a better look, Phillips raised his rifle and fired directly at the aircraft. The gunfire struck dangerously near the rotor assembly, forcing Air Three to climb to a safer altitude and maintain a wider orbit.

By this point, the firefight had expanded into neighboring parking lots and side streets. Officers attempted to establish containment, but the suspects were constantly moving, firing on the go and using their armor to absorb hits. Many officers were wounded during these early exchanges, either by direct fire or fragments from ricochets.

Recognizing the need for heavier firepower, several officers made a split-second decision. They ran to B&B Sales, a nearby gun shop, and requested assistance. The store employees complied. Officers were loaned AR-15 style rifles, magazines, and ammunition. Armed with weapons capable of penetrating the suspects’ armor at certain angles, officers moved to re-engage more effectively. This moment marked the first real shift in tactical parity between officers and the gunmen.

Phillips, heavily engaged and wounded in the arm by early police gunfire, attempted to reposition behind a parked vehicle while reloading. His rifle jammed repeatedly. His injuries slowed him, and the cumulative pressure of police rifle fire forced him toward a northbound escape route. After being pinned near a car, Phillips took his own life with a shot to the head. His death marked the end of the more mobile and aggressive of the two suspects.

Matasareanu continued the fight. He commandeered a getaway vehicle, attempting to drive east on Archwood. But his car was disabled within moments by concentrated police fire that struck the engine block and tires. Matasareanu exited the vehicle and attempted to return fire while crawling along the pavement. His armor protected his torso, but his legs were exposed. Officers and SWAT operators fired deliberately at his lower body, eventually incapacitating him. He was taken into custody alive but gravely wounded. He died from blood loss at the scene before paramedics could stabilize him.

The gun battle lasted approximately forty-four minutes and involved nearly two thousand rounds fired. When it was over, both suspects were dead. More than a dozen officers were wounded along with multiple civilians. The scale of the event exposed significant gaps in police equipment and response readiness, prompting nationwide changes in patrol loadouts, tactical planning, and interagency coordination. Patrol rifles, once rare, became standard across departments in the years that followed.

What remained that morning were shattered windows, wrecked patrol cars, wounded officers, terrified civilians, and the lingering echo of a gunfight that had pushed a city’s police force to its breaking point. The street would eventually reopen. The bank would repair its lobby. The city would move on. But for everyone who survived it, the memory of that morning would never loosen its grip.

The Legacy of North Hollywood

The investigation that followed the North Hollywood Shootout revealed a hard truth about American policing in the late 1990s. There was no shortage of courage that morning, but the shootout exposed a wide gap between the threats officers faced on the street and the tools they carried to meet them.

Most patrol officers that morning were armed only with 9 millimeter pistols and 12 gauge shotguns. Their vehicles held no patrol rifles. Their ballistic vests were standard soft armor that could not stop rifle rounds. Meanwhile, Larry Phillips and Emil Matasareanu arrived with custom-fitted steel plate armor and converted automatic rifles capable of sustained fire. The imbalance was immediate and devastating.

The officers did not fail but their gear did.

Perhaps the most significant turning point came when officers ran into the nearby B&B gun shop and borrowed AR-15 rifles from the owner. The decision was desperate and improvised, but it was also decisive. Those rifles allowed officers to finally deliver accurate fire that could reach vulnerable areas of the suspects’ bodies. The moment marked a national shift in understanding: patrol officers needed rifles, not just SWAT.

Departments across the country overhauled their patrol equipment. Patrol rifles became standard. Many agencies expanded their ballistic vest programs to include rifle-rated plates. Training shifted to incorporate active shooter response, rapid deployment, and team movement techniques that previously had been reserved for SWAT. Communication protocols improved. Interagency coordination became a priority. Officers were taught to expect threats that did not fit historical patterns.

The shootout also reshaped the culture. Officers and trainers began to emphasize the importance of composure under fire. They studied how officers like John Caprarelli performed under impossible pressure. His actions became a teaching point. With only a pistol, minimal cover, and no margin for error, he delivered precise, disciplined rounds at a suspect who vastly outgunned him. His shot disrupted the attackers’ rhythm and helped shift the momentum of the fight.

Caprarelli did not survive that moment because of luck. He survived because of training, discipline, and the ability to think clearly under extreme stress. He showed what it means to fight with what you have, not with what you wish you had.

North Hollywood became a case study in preparation, mindset, and adaptability. It reminded a generation of officers that chaos can arrive without warning and that courage alone cannot compensate for inferior equipment or outdated tactics. It drove home the lesson that training must reflect reality, not comfort. It became a rallying point for a new era of law enforcement readiness.

Preparing for the Unexpected

The lessons of North Hollywood reach beyond policing. They apply to anyone who wants to protect themselves, their families, or the people around them when disaster strikes.

Life rarely gives you warning when disaster strikes. Death can come for you in the middle of an ordinary morning, just as it did in Los Angeles. You might be at home, at work, or walking through a parking lot when everything changes. When that moment comes, you will not have time to become someone new. You will fall back on the habits and preparation you built long beforehand.

I had wanted to be a Force Reconnaissance Marine since I was a Midshipman at the Naval Academy. The Recon Marines I met always carried themselves with a quiet confidence, a calm competence that felt different from anything I had seen. Men like Jim Capers and Jimmy Howard walked larger than life to me. I devoured every book I could find about them, and their exploits leapt off the page. There was no doubt in my mind that these were extraordinary warriors, and I could not wait for the day when I earned my place among them.

Like many young Marines, I assumed they learned advanced, secretive fighting techniques reserved only for elite units. I imagined classified skillsets and complex tactics known only to the best. That belief did not survive the first month at 1st Force Recon Company. What I learned instead was far more valuable.

There is no secret textbook at the end of selection. There are no special moves or mystical tricks. What sets Special Operations personnel apart is simple: they are exceptionally good at the fundamentals. Nearly everything we learned could be found in the good old  Field Manual 7-8 Infantry Platoon and Squad. Recon Marines simply trained longer and harder at the basics until they could perform them flawlessly in any environment, under any conditions. 

Shoot. Move. Communicate. Treat casualties. Master the small things and the big things take care of themselves.

That is why mental and physical conditioning matter. Clear thinking matters. Composure matters. Visualization, scenario-based preparation, and tactical repetition matter. The ability to operate under stress is not born. It is trained.

Which brings us back to North Hollywood.

Think of Officer John Caprarelli lining up a clean sight picture while bullets shredded the tree beside him. He did not possess superhuman skill. He did not draw from a secret technique. He did not “rise” to meet the moment. He fell back on the highest level of his preparation. He slowed his breathing. He trusted his fundamentals. He steadied his hands. And when his moment arrived, he made the shot he had spent years preparing for.

It is clear that Caprarelli put in the time long before that morning. When the fight came to him, he did not hesitate. He performed. That is the quiet truth behind every great act of courage: it is built on thousands of unseen repetitions.

Will you be ready when your moment comes?

These moments remind us that courage is not the absence of fear. It is the ability to function while fear screams in your ear. It is composure under pressure. It is clarity in chaos. It is the will to act when action is the only thing keeping innocent people alive.

The time to build that capability is now. Train hard. Train smart. Train for the outlier, not the average. Build the habits that carry you through chaos. When the unexpected arrives, may you meet it with steadiness, clarity, and the will to win.

Author Bio:

Byron Owen is a Reconnaissance Marine with tours as both a platoon commander and commanding officer at the elite 1st Force Reconnaissance Company. He also had the honor of commanding several intelligence and cyber units to include Combat Mission Team One, Cyberspace Warfare Task Group 1, and 3d Radio Battalion. He writes about influence warfare and cyber at keyterraincyber.com, and about leadership at broadswordsix.com