It was a very simple assignment: attend a Christmas party hosted by Nocturnal Night Club and King’s Autos, take a few photographs of the guests, ask a few harmless questions about their 2023 and get out.
By the time I was face down on the floor, cowering with Mayor Rose and a handful of other guests as bullets whipped overhead, any illusion that Los Santos had settled down for the holidays had been shattered.
That was just the start.
Before the first shot was fired, the party itself had been progressing rather pleasantly. A selection of initial free drinks (and inexplicably free pizza) gave the guests an immediate boost on arrival. While the dancefloor may have been initially underutilised (perhaps due to the whiplash of Rick Astley and Chumbawamba piercing some Christmas classics), it eventually filled up as night fell. Fashionably, partygoers were split in to two camps: holiday cheese and festive professionalism. A charming mix that complimented the occasion – echoed by Mayor Rose’s own outfit of choice.
But, just less than one and half hours in to proceedings, nobody would be talking about festive clothing any more.
This reporter was standing next to Mayor Rose when a thundering boom penetrated the misty winter air. It wasn’t a firework. It wasn’t a party popper. It wasn’t a car backfiring on the streets below. It was a gunshot. A rifle shot, more specifically. For those furthest from the dancefloor like us, confusion immediately set in. For those in the centre, the party continued unabated.
Stepping out of our roofside booth, my heart sank upon seeing a body on the ground near the edge of the venue. A smattering of red stretched out across the top layer of snow. Those in close proximity appeared just as frozen. Surely not? It couldn’t be? Not here… not now? But still the blood ran and still something needed to be done. As it began to sink it what had just happened, I bolted to the dancefloor, calling for help and medical aid.
Now obscured by those attending to the scene, Nocturnal’s owner Yob Llata lay motionless in his familiar and perfectly fitted grey suit with purple flourishes – matching the highlights of his treasured venue.
This was tragedy enough, but no sooner had I turned my attention to ensuring a safe evacuation of the Mayor had an even more immediate threat presented itself. With only a solitary warning from attending Park Ranger, Jack Powers, the night club was soon under siege. In the far off lobby, through the tinted glass, the elevator doors slide open and a new danger emerged. Armed figures dressed in black stepped out in to the cold and and laid down a sheet of bullets sending guests diving to the floor and behind whatever cover they could find.
As emergency medical attention was attempted to be delivered to Mr. Llata, both Nocturnal staff and off-duty law enforcement officers (to whom full merit must be given) returned fire towards the bar and lobby area. The armed intruders were identified from afar as members of the Angels of Death Motorcycle Club.
Further panic set in as the aptly named gunmen claimed a hostage identified as co-host Roxy Zambini of King’s Autos – surely no friend of the Angels of Death. While their full intent and demands could not be gauged from a distance, Zambini was used to put returning fire on hold and was watched being escorted back towards the lobby elevator.
Though the tension was at its highest, Zambini was freed and reunited with friends and colleagues as the gunmen disappeared to the lower levels just as law enforcement began to arrive on the scene.
Perhaps needless to say, as the Mayor was airlifted to safety, Nocturnal was prompty closed and evacuated of all non-staff. This was not a moment to linger to acquire statements and quotes. A life had seemingly been lost surrounded by their closest friends and co-workers, and a manhunt was underway which would run long in to the night.
I was on my way back to the Weazel News offices when reports came in of gunshots in the Vespucci area. Had the Angels of Death been able to retreat back to their beach-side compound? In truth, I could and probably should have remained at the office and dispatched another reporter to the scene. But with staff numbers low for the holidays, it would have been unfair to force another in to an already soul-crushing night. So I took off for Vespucci alone.
The atmosphere was stark.
A usually vibrant and sun-soaked hub of tourism and recreation now appeared frozen in time. Word had clearly spread around local residents as to what was about to unfold as the streets and sidewalks were left eerily quiet. Armed figures, shrouded in mist and snow, scurried about on rooftops surrounding the Angels of Death compound as a Sheriff helicopter circled overhead at a safe distance. I watched and waited from afar. Waiting for the first sirens. Waiting for the next wave of gunshots to echo over this beach town.
This was no longer a place for street performers and bodybuilders. This was a film set. The actors were in position, the crew watched on nervously and everyone was waiting for the director to yell “action!“
Yell they did, and soon Vespucci was a warzone. A joint LSPD and BCSO taskforce arrived in their BearCats and the area surrounding Melanoma Street was locked down. From the requisite distance, it was difficult for this reporter to keep pace with the flow of the operation. But every now and then, I was granted a window in to the action.
