[center][h3]Prologue Conflagration[/h3] [i]“I've seen this city taking itself to heaven in pieces.” [/i] ― Ryan Gattis [/center] [b]April 30th, 1992[/b] The van rolled through Hell double-quick. South L.A. heading north towards Koreatown. The van rolled past looters carrying TV's. The van rolled past fiery buildings and burning husks of cars. Koreans with rifles stood guard on rooftops. Helicopters flew overhead, capturing the carnage and transmitting it across the world. The van had a police scanner inside. It squawked out reports of county wide mayhem. The reports were falling on deaf ears. LAPD was nowhere to be seen in this part of town. LASD was holding down the county, but LAPD had barricaded themselves further north, protecting the white and rich in Beverley Hills and West Hollywood. The message was clear to the areas most effected by riot: Fuck your safety and security. Mayor Bradley was calling in the National Guard and they would be there this time tomorrow. This was maybe their best and last chance. Koreatown became Little Armenia. The van driver turned onto a side street. A strip mall with no Korean sharpshooters and no looters. Three businesses: A pizza place, a boarded-up shoe store, and Kafesjian & Son Pawn Shop. The van skidded up to the pawn shop. Three men with assault rifles, dressed in black with hockey masks, jumped out the back and rushed towards the door. Gunshots shattered the pawnshop window. J.C. Kafesjian crouched behind a stack of guitar amps with a pistol aimed at the robbers. They scattered behind the van. The driver slipped out and started around the back of the strip mall. J.C. cursed in Armenian as he reloaded. Son Tommy, hunkered down behind the jewelry case, stood up to open fire. Tommy got turned into swiss cheese by the robbers. J.C. screamed and started firing wild. The van's driver quietly came in through the back. He pulled out his pistol and shot J.C. in the back. The old man crumpled to the floor. The four men converged in the store. They traded looks before fanning out. One of them found a safe on the floor next to Tommy's body. He kicked Tommy's body out the way and ran a gloved hand across the dial. "Get it open," said the driver. "After you get it out, we torch this whole fucking strip mall." [center]---[/center] [center][h3]Part I: To Live and Die in L.A.[/h3][/center] [center][i]I got my black shirt on I got my black gloves on I got my ski mask on This shit's been too long I got my twelve gauge sawed off I got my headlights turned off I'm 'bout to bust some shots off I'm 'bout to dust some cops off[/i] - Ice-T[/center] [b]March 18th, 1997[/b] "This fucking guy is crazy." Frank Lyga pulled his sidearm out and put it on the passenger set. His undercover piece of shit car couldn't outrun the gas guzzler the black man was driving. The driver had tried to start some shit at the traffic light, telling Lyga to pull over and flashing gang signs. Lyga saw a piece and tried to haul ass, but the car caught up with him and was flashing his lights. Lyga keyed his radio. "Hey, I got a problem," he said. "I've got a black guy in a green Jeep coming up here! He's got a gun!" The green light went red and Lyga cursed. The car pulled up beside his. The driver shouted. "I'll cap you." Lyga saw the driver move. Lyga went for his piece and got off two shots. The driver slumped forward. The car started to roll through the red light. Lyga keyed the mic again. "I just shot this guy! I need help! Get up here!" He got out and pulled his badge out as he approached the car. The driver was slumped against the steering wheel. A piece laid on the car floorboard. Lyga saw something metallic on the driver's hip. He reached out and pushed his shirt up. "Shit," said Lyga. "Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit." It was a badge. LAPD. The same fucking badge as his.