May 9, 2000. Tuesday. Sunny. Northern Los Angeles.
It was a weekday, so the Pacific Standard Bank branch had few customers.
The reality is, over ninety percent of Americans have no savings habit. Therefore, most American banks operate purely as commercial banks, focusing on financing, loans, and issuing credit cards.
This particular Pacific Standard branch mainly served local factories and small businesses in North LA. Personal loan applicants were a rare sight. As a result, the bank was usually pretty quiet.
Inside the lobby, only a handful of customers were doing business. The tellers looked bored enough to fall asleep standing up.
Down the street, a nondescript panel van was parked by the curb. It had been sitting there for three days, but nobody paid it any mind.
Inside the van, two men took turns watching the bank through binoculars, constantly yawning.
"Pete, the boss said a hit was going down here. We've been staked out for three straight days, and nothing's happened! Think he got bad intel?"
" Yawn. Anthony, I don't know if the boss got played, but I know if I don't get coffee soon, I'm going to die. Keep eyes on the place by yourself for a minute, I'm making a run."
"Grab me one too! Fuck! This place is so dead, you have to drive a mile just to find coffee. How much cash could even be in that vault? Why would anyone bother hitting it?"
Anthony grumbled non-stop. He couldn't make sense of Vincent's orders.
Truth was, Vincent wanted all the glory for himself. He hadn't told his subordinates about Donnie, the undercover cop, nor did he explain why Phil and Dennis were targeting this specific branch.
He just told them he had a tip about a potential robbery at Pacific Standard, and ordered Pete and Anthony to stake it out.
Sitting in the dark with zero context and zero action, Anthony was already questioning his superior's judgment.
Since his partner went for a coffee run, Anthony set down the binoculars, leaned his seat back, and decided to close his eyes for a second.
His partner would be back in ten minutes. Taking a ten-minute nap wouldn't hurt anything, right?
Back at the bank, it was nearing the lunch hour. Head of Security Rupert Lawrence stepped out the back door for a smoke.
Standing by the rear flower bed, Rupert lit his cigarette with trembling hands. With forced casualness, he "accidentally" dropped a set of keys into the bushes.
At the exact same time, a sharp-looking Asian youth in a tailored suit, sporting a thin mustache, strolled into the front lobby. He radiated the aura of a successful businessman, immediately catching the eyes of several female tellers.
"Hello. I'd like to apply for a loan. Where do I go?"
The staff responded with textbook politeness.
"Do you have an appointment, sir?"
"No."
"Then please head up to the second floor for consultation."
"Thank you very much!"
The Asian youth thanked them courteously and slowly walked toward the stairs.
This suburban branch of Pacific Standard had two floors. The first floor was the general service lobby for standard withdrawals, deposits, and transfers. The second floor housed the credit and lending department, handling loans, investments, and corporate accounts.
Before heading up, the Asian youth caught sight of Rupert Lawrence returning from his smoke break. Rupert gave an almost imperceptible nod.
The Asian youth immediately pulled out his phone and dialed a number. He let it ring exactly three times before hanging up.
He then stepped onto the second floor. It was an open-plan office divided into cubicles, with several account managers working at their desks.
Seeing the sharp-dressed Asian youth walk in, a manager immediately stood up to greet him.
"Hello, sir! Are you here to apply for a loan?"
"Yes. It's a rather substantial loan. I need to speak directly with your General Manager."
"May I ask your name?"
"You can call me Jack."
"Jack," the sharp-looking, slightly disguised Asian youth, was naturally Lawson.
While speaking with the manager, Lawson subtly positioned himself near the rear window, his eyes frequently darting toward the General Manager's open office door.
Inside the office, David Abbott, looking visibly distracted and anxious, pulled a keycard from his pocket and laid it flat on his desk.
Miles away, sitting in a parked van, Phil's burner phone rang. After exactly three seconds, the line went dead.
"Alright, boys! It's showtime!"
Bearded Phil's face lit up with adrenaline. Dennis let out a sharp whistle and cranked the engine.
Donnie's face showed a brief flash of conflict, which quickly hardened into grim resolve.
The van, disguised as a generic contractor vehicle, pulled into the bank's rear parking lot without drawing any attention.
The three men stepped out. Phil scooped the set of keys out of the flower bed. They pulled their masks down and headed straight for the rear service door.
Standing by the second-floor window, Lawson watched the whole sequence unfold perfectly.
The security guards in the camera room were watching too.
"Game on."
Lawson pulled a Joker mask from his jacket, slapped it over his face, and activated the ECM Jammer in his pocket.
In the security room, a guard saw the masked men on the monitor and immediately reached for his radio.
Static.
He looked back at the monitors. The screens were blurring out, dissolving into snow.
It wasn't just the radios. The ECM Jammer killed every electronic signal in the building. Computers dropped offline. Cell phones lost service.
The guard in the camera room panicked, sensing an imminent threat. Before he could react, the door kicked open, and a man with an AR-15 swept into the room.
American bank guards carry pistols or shotguns. But staring down the barrel of a military-grade assault rifle, this guard made the smart choice and immediately surrendered.
Dennis secured the camera room while Phil and Donnie breached the main lobby.
Seeing the masked men with rifles, one overly brave guard went for his holster.
Pfft! Phil's suppressed AR-15 barked. The guard dropped to the floor, clutching a bleeding leg.
He wasn't dead, just incapacitated, but Phil's ruthless efficiency instantly paralyzed the remaining guards.
Customers began screaming in terror.
The screams echoed up to the second floor, but things were much quieter up here.
Wearing his Joker mask and leveling his Glock 18, Lawson already had the room on lockdown.
"Listen up, folks. We're all just working-class people here. No need to throw your lives away for the capitalists, right?"
Moving quickly, Lawson used heavy-duty zip-ties to bind the managers' hands behind their backs, confiscating all communication devices along the way.
He then marched everyone, including the General Manager, down to the first-floor lobby. He made sure to scoop up the keycard David Abbott had "accidentally" left on his desk.
Downstairs, the terrified customers and staff were already zip-tied and corralled by Phil and Donnie.
The one guard who didn't cooperate was still bleeding on the floor.
"Status?" Lawson asked.
"Smooth like butter!" Phil grinned.
"Lock the front doors. Then we open the vault."
From the moment Lawson walked into the bank, exactly ten minutes had passed.