Scott pounded the pavement hard on Jan's heels, eyes darting between the sights on the street all around him; the downed and wounded civilians with their confused partners, families, or children crying or screaming in confusion at all that was happening around them. And to his gut-wrenching anguish, he could do nothing to stop and help any of them against his every impulse to do so. 
But as bad as it was, and as horrible as the toll had been so far, the reaper would be claiming a lot more if they didn't press on and get to the bomb-carrier before he completed his apocalyptic mission. So, he powered onward and closed himself down to the emotions churning inside him. 
As the trio moved on, around the corner and onto a main street, more gunmen opened up on them, the hammering of their weapons fire an alien sound in the environs of the cosy, christmassy scene of the Danish street. Scott hurled himself to cover behind a christmas market stall. Rounds splintered and cracked through the wood and steel of the structure, and he risked a look as Jan fired back. He saw more of the tangoes taking aim from further down the shopping street, or firing from the hip at random to confuse and slow the team and cause further chaos. More innocents went down in the hail of fire, and the brit felt his anger rising at the scene. These people had done nothing; were guilty of nothing more than enjoying the holiday with their families and loved one. And it had turned to a nightmare, thanks to the directives of some so-called visionary somewhere. 
A young woman with a child in her arms skidded and slipped on the slush close to Scott, and the SAS trooper saw one of the terrs raise his rifle again. Gritting his teeth, Scott sprinted forward and man-handled the woman aside rougly, swinging her and the kid by the arm into cover behind the stall, leaving her wide-eyed and incoherently spluttering in Dutch at him before he moved on, raising his P90 and firing in short, aimed bursts toward the hostiles. But the situation took another turn as the Danish SF turned up, the authorities catching up to the situation at last. 
Almost encircled, he watched with a kind of inevitability as Jan opened up - precisely, aiming to wound and not kill - on the Dutch soldiers. Following his lead, Scott reluctantly did likewise, firing over heads, or at cover they were hiding behind to keep them back as the trio moved.
He listened and answered with a curt 'right' as Jan goaded them on to move, reloading as he moved out of cover, the long, boxy cassette-like mag of the P90 clattering to the pavement as he prepped another. All of a sudden, his hand and arm around the gun were wrenched aside from a sudden impact. Taking momentary pause, he saw what had happened to cause the ache in his arm; the gun had been hit, the polymer frame of the PDW splintered and cracked around the grip from some large-caliber round. The trigger wouldn't fully pull, and the charging handle was askew from its' position alongside the frame. In short, the little Belgian PDW was fucked. 
Cursing, he unclipped it from his one-point sling and chucked it into an ornamental planter, drawing his Mk.23 and taking it in a two-handed stance, muzzle-down as he ran, boots thumping through the slushy snow. 
He slammed to a stop, skidding down beside Jan with wild eyes, nodding urgently as he pulled a smoke from his vest and listened intently. As Jan commanded the throw, he yanked the pin and flipped the spoon off of the grenade, waiting for it to start spewing smoke, before rearing up and overhanding the cylindrical grenade at the hotel door. It hit the top of the frame, and then clattered to the ground atop the lobby steps, billowing a thick cloud of white smoke. 
"Whatever you're going to do, I'll be right behind you, sir" he said as he crouched back down, handgun at the ready.