Scott dived through the door as Jan yelled, grabbing Wendy's plate carrier by the drag handle and tugging her to safety too as he half-ducked, half-fell into cover. Hugging the dusty floor, he winced as the grenade detonated with an eye-watering concussion, leaving his ears ringing. Loose chunks of plaster fell from the ceiling, furniture (meager as it was) collapsed, and the air was full of choking dust. 
Spluttering, the SAS trooper climbed to his feet and staggered in to the kitchen. Jan was already picking himself up and ordering them into action. Scott eyed him a brief moment, nodding to confirm the pole was okay, before he sprang into action, moving to take point. He moved swiftly on the trail of the man who'd exited the room in a hurry, Mk.23 held firmly in both hands. Moving swiftly despite his size and bulk, he pushed through the doorway at the rear of the dining-type room into a sparse kitchen. No souls inhabited the room, and he shouted a terse 'clear', before moving through the door at his left; emerging into a hall. A shadow moved at the end of the room, darting up the stairs. Another figure moved, raising a sub-machinegun and yammering in a language he didn't understand. Scott ducked low and opened fire with the Mk.23, the heavy pistol bucking in his hands as the two rounds hit centre mass.
"Target down," he called and moved on. "I think the hostiles gone upstairs, I'll-"
He cut off as another hostile slammed into him from the right, out of the hallway, and he hit the side of the staircase hard. grappling with the man, he managed to ram a fist into his stomach, but received a cut from a vicious-looking knife along his right forearm. With his combat shirt rolled up in the heat, it left an angry wound that spilled blood near instantly, before he hit the attacker with a right cross in the enclosed space, driving him back. The SOCOM was lost in the struggle, and the Englishman struggled to draw a breath, before another punch hammered on the back of his neck and he stumbled back.