Too Much Dust Left Behind

I felt like I couldn't breathe. They were already here. I was supposed to have days, weeks, or even longer unspecified amounts of time before they arrived. But it was far too late. The Feds were here, of course they were. Knocking on my front porch like they owned the place, which legally they now did. It would only be a matter of a few more seconds before my installed auto-turrets engaged, and after that, there was no turning back, especially since the turrets didn't have full 360 degree swivel rotation. See, I had prepared for such an event, when my massive international tax fraud scheme was uncovered by the man. It had been a good few years, and I hadn't paid a dime since '07. But alas, all good things must come to an end as they say. Here I was, cowering behind my bedroom door, weapon in hand. What I held so dearly, was the Glookin-23, my lifeline. It was technically a chinese bootleg of a more popular firearm, but it's easy modability made it my weapon of choice. I was able to rig a 45 round cylinder flush into what was supposed to be a 7 round chamber, that was the beauty of the Glookin.
Suddenly, my internal monologue was cut short by the ear-piercing sounds of hundreds of high caliber rounds ejecting from the concealed turret barrels bolted above my front door. I could barely hear the screams of the officers, however many there were. But eventually they figured out a well aimed shot to the targeting camera would shut them off, and they made their approach in. "FBI, COME OUT WHERE WE CAN SEE YOU, OR WE WILL SHOOT ON SIGHT, BY THIS LOGIC YOU'RE GETTING SHOT EITHER WAY." One of the officers barked at me, I couldn't hear him from down there though, mainly because I was on the third floor, but he also wasn't the tallest dude either. I ignored their request, obviously, and luckily for me they started searching the rooms one at a time in a comically slow fashion. Being as I was on the third floor of a twelve bedroom home, it would take them several minutes to get to me. This gave me two options, I could either run for the hills, leaving behind the mountain of criminal evidence and charges against me, or, I could try my luck against the FBI's finest agents with nothing but a shoddy pistol held together with duct tape and chewing gum. I chose the first option, but not without leaving our guests a parting gift, of course. In the classic cliche action movie spirit, my home was rigged to violently explode, in case of emergency. I had nothing against these officers, I'm sure they were good people. But there were far too many secrets here that I couldn't afford to compromise. With a click of a button, they wouldn't find any of it, not my excessive stockpile of mercury, or my manga collection.
Jumping out of the back window of the room, I landed on the soft ground below with a loud crunch. Which was probably the sound of several of my extremities getting shattered, no doubt.
But using my natural gift of a positive attitude, I stood back up with relative ease. Thankfully the Feds were too busy reenacting a Call of Duty mission to notice, so I proceeded to put some distance between me and them. When I made it up the hill behind my house, I took one last look at the ugly thing. I never did get to fix the neon green paint job. Detonator in hand, I put the past behind me, and looked towards the future, and pressed down with a click. I smiled, until I realized the explosives I rigged were nuclear, and contemplated this series of unfortunate life choices for just a few short moments, before everything went bright red,-ish orange.