Lights, Camera, Gun Fight: The North Hollywood Shootout Part 1

Mark Ellison liked to get his banking done early. He always said the day ran smoother when he cleared small chores before nine. He parked his Honda Accord along Laurel Canyon Boulevard and stepped out with a cup of gas station coffee warming one hand and a folded deposit slip in the other. The February air carried a mild chill that felt good against his face. He had a staff meeting later and a stack of emails waiting, but the morning felt simple. 

Predictable. Safe.

Inside, the bank held the usual mix of fluorescent light and soft background hum. Two tellers worked the line. A security guard leaned against the far wall, tapping his foot like he was trying to keep himself awake. A few customers waited with the quiet patience people bring to places where they know they are going to stand around for a while. Mark stepped in behind a woman in a blue blazer who was recalculating figures in her checkbook.

Near the far counter, a father adjusted his daughter’s sweater. The girl held a worn stuffed rabbit in one arm. She looked up at Mark for a moment, curious and shy, then hid behind her father’s leg when he smiled back.

Mark took a sip of coffee and let the warmth settle in. He thought about lunch. Maybe the sandwich shop on Oxnard. They had a spicy Italian he liked. For a moment he let himself enjoy the small comfort of an ordinary morning.

Then something metallic clattered outside.

Not loud enough to alarm the room. Not sharp enough to draw everyone’s attention. But it caught his. He glanced toward the tall glass windows just as two men stepped out of a white Chevrolet and made their way toward the entrance with unsettling precision. Both wore heavy jackets despite the mild weather. Both carried duffel bags that sagged with the weight of something solid.

Mark frowned. Something about them felt wrong. Their pace. Their posture. The way their faces stayed locked forward with grim focus.

The woman in front of him noticed too. She lowered her checkbook. “Those guys look strange, don’t they?”

Mark did not answer. They were already at the door.

The first man pulled it open.

For one suspended moment Mark’s brain tried to make sense of what he saw. Body armor under the jacket. Thick plates strapped across the man’s torso. The hard outline of a rifle rising from inside the duffel.

Bank Robbers Larry Eugene Phillips Jr. and Emil Dechebal Mătăsăreanu

Everything in the lobby seemed to pause. Even the background hum faded.

The man stepped inside.

“This is a fucking hold up!”

The rifle blast that followed hit the room like a thunderclap. The shot punched into the ceiling and sent white plaster dust falling in sheets. People screamed. The little girl shrieked and dropped her rabbit. Her father scooped her up and shielded her with both arms. The woman in the blue blazer collapsed to the floor, hands over her head.

The second man came through the doorway. He moved heavier, colder, methodical. He fired into the ceiling as well, and the shock of it rang through Mark’s skull. His ears buzzed. His coffee cup shook in his hand.

The security guard’s hand jumped toward his holster.

“Drop your fucking gun and get on the floor,” the heavy man shouted. “Don’t try to be a hero.”

The guard froze. His fingers hovered above the pistol. Then he slowly placed it on the tile and lay face down with his arms stretched wide. The gunman kicked the pistol away without slowing his pace.

He rushed the counter and swung his Norinco rifle toward the bulletproof door that separated the tellers from the lobby. The rifle thundered again and again. The so called bulletproof glass shattered inward under the rifle fire. Shards skittered across the floor.

He stepped through the opening as if breaking through a rotten shed door and seized the assistant manager by the arm.

“You,” he barked. “Take me to the vault. Now.”

The manager stumbled, voice breaking. “Please, don’t hurt anyone. Just take it easy.”

“Move.”

Mark pressed himself behind a pillar. His heart drummed against his ribs. Sweat broke across his back. He risked a look. The gunman shoved the manager down the hallway toward the vault while the first gunman swept his rifle across the lobby, daring anyone to lift their head.

Metal clanked in the back. Keys rattled. Someone fumbled a combination dial. Then the voice of the heavier gunman cut through the noise, sharp and furious.

“Open it. Fill the bag. Every dollar.”

A moment passed. Then a roar.

“You have got to be kidding me. Where is the rest of it?”

The manager’s reply trembled. “We had a schedule change. The pickup came early. That is everything we have.”

A loud bang followed. It sounded like a fist slamming steel.

“You were supposed to have seven hundred fifty thousand. Do not lie to me.”

“I swear. That is everything.”

The gunman cursed and stuffed what he could into the bag.

Back in the lobby, the first gunman walked slowly among the prone customers. His boots tapped on the tile. His finger stayed tight on the trigger. A teller whimpered near the counter.

“Please don’t hurt me,” she said.

“No one needs to get hurt,” the gunman answered. “Stay quiet. Do what you are told.”

Mark pressed himself tighter against the pillar and fought to control his breathing. His hands trembled so badly he flattened them against the floor to hide it. The woman beside him whispered, her voice tiny and cracking.

“Oh God. Are they going to kill us?”

Mark could not answer. His throat was too tight, and his mind felt suspended between disbelief and fear.

He watched the gunmen glide through the room like they had done this a hundred times before. Calm. Efficient. Completely in control.

That was the moment he understood something simple and terrible.

He had walked into the wrong bank on the wrong day.

Officers Loren Farrell and Martin Perello rolled down Laurel Canyon in their patrol unit, the windows cracked just enough to let in the cool air. Morning sunlight filtered through the palm fronds and washed the storefronts in a soft yellow glow. Traffic was light. A gardener pushed a leaf blower along the sidewalk, kicking leaves and scraps of paper into the gutter.

Just another quiet Los Angeles morning.

Perello worked on a foil-wrapped burrito filled with eggs, carne asada, and French fries. 

“You sure you do not want one?” he asked through a mouthful of food. “Robertos. Best breakfast burrito in the Valley.”

Farrell lifted the plastic shaker bottle in his cup holder. The protein sludge inside sloshed in a slow, unhappy swirl. “Does that thing have french fries it in Marty?”

Perello smiled and nodded.

“No thanks buddy, I’m trying to avoid a heart attack.”

Perello grinned. “What is the point of living if you skip all the good stuff.”

Farrell sighed. “You are an ass.”

Perello wiped his fingers on a napkin. “You catch COPS last night? They had a guy hopped up on PCP. Thought he was a ninja. Funniest thing I have seen all week.”

Farrell frowned. “Why would I watch a show about my own life? I get enough of that on shift.”

“Alright smart guy,” Perello said. “So what do you watch?”

“I do not watch a lot of TV. The Simpsons, I guess.”

“The cartoon?” Perello stared at him.

“Yeah, man. It is funny. You should watch it.”

Perello shook his head. “I will stick with real television.”

“That is your loss,” Farrell said.

They rolled peacefully through the next intersection, the cruiser humming along. Neither man had any idea they were seconds away from driving into the most violent firefight the department would face for years.

The radio crackled.

“Any units in the area, possible two eleven in progress. Bank of America at Archwood. Caller reports shouting inside.”

Perello let out a breath and stuffed the remainder of his burrito into a brown paper bag. 

“Well. So much for breakfast.”

Farrell picked up the mic. “Trust me Marty, they are doing you a favor.” He keyed the handset. “Eleven-L. We are two blocks out.”

They turned into the bank’s parking lot. At first, they saw only cars. A row of sedans and compacts blocked most of the lobby from view. Farrell eased the cruiser forward, inch by inch.

Perello scanned the lot. “I do not see anything. You?”

“Not yet,” Farrell said. “Let me get a better angle.”

The cruiser rolled ahead. The interior of the bank came into view through the tall glass windows.

Farrell froze.

Customers lay face down on the tile with their arms over their heads. A father shielded his daughter with his whole body. Tellers crouched behind the counter. And in the center of the lobby stood a man in full body armor, holding an assault rifle. Another armed man worked behind the counter with a black duffel bag.

Perello blinked. “Is that armor?”

“Yeah,” Farrell said quietly. “And they are carrying assault rifles.”

“Not great,” Perello muttered.

“Eleven-L,” Farrell said into the mic, voice tightening. “We have two heavily armed suspects inside. Repeat, two suspects with rifles and body armor.” He started to add more when one of the gunmen snapped his head toward the parking lot.

The man saw them.

“Down!” Farrell shouted.

The world exploded.

The front doors erupted outward as a burst of automatic gunfire tore through the entrance. Rounds hammered the cruiser. The windshield dissolved into a spray of glittering shards. Bullets tore into the hood and punched through the radiator. Steam shot upward in a white plume.

“Jesus!” Perello yelled. “Those rounds are going right through us!”

Farrell shoved his door open and rolled out. His shoulder slammed against the pavement. He crawled behind the front wheel and pressed himself into the protection of the engine block. Perello dove behind a concrete planter overflowing with dead marigolds, dirt spilling across his sleeves and vest.

The armored gunman advanced in controlled, steady bursts, muzzle tracking from side to side. Farrell fired two rounds from his service pistol. Both struck the chest plate.

“What the hell!” Perello shouted. “You hit him dead center. He didn’t even feel it.”

The second gunman appeared in the doorway dragging the duffel. He swept the lot with his rifle, moving in concert with the first. They were not panicking. They were not rushing. They were working angles like men who had practiced this.

Rounds slammed into the planter. Chips of concrete and soil blasted into Perello’s face. He ducked lower and spit dirt from his mouth. “This is useless. Loren, we are pinned hard.”

Farrell pressed flatter against the wheel well. “We need rifles.”

“Yeah, genius, I knew that. But unless you have one in your back pocket, I do not know what to tell you.”

“I am thinking,” Farrell said.

“That is not comforting.”

Farrell keyed the mic, speaking through the gunfire. “Eleven-L. Shots fired. Suspects have automatic rifles and full armor. Officers pinned down. Need Metro and any rifles you can send.”

The cruiser took another burst. A side mirror exploded. A tire blew out with a sharp snap. 

The gunmen separated, one angling around the front of the cruiser while the other moved toward the handicapped parking spaces to flank them.

“Marty,” Farrell said, “they are moving to box us in.”

“Fantastic,” Perello replied. “Really brightens my whole day.”

Farrell tightened his grip on the pistol. He felt every beat of his pulse against the polymer frame.

The gunmen raised their rifles.

The firefight had only just begun.

This story continues in Lights, Camera, Gun Fight: The North Hollywood Shootout – Part 2

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