AN: I do not own Teen Wolf or the Bourne movies.

Peter Hale had chosen this Starbucks for two reasons. The first was it was about two hours away from Beacon Hills, and early in the morning – therefore highly unlikely that he and Sheriff Stilinski would run into each other. He didn't want to tempt fate and get himself arrested. That mess would be hard to cover up, even for the CIA.

The second, and most important reason, was that his last remaining beta could meet him more easily the closer he was to Seattle.

Vernon Boyd, or just Boyd as he preferred, was a tall and broad young man with skin the color of the iced mocha he was standing in line to order. Peter thought he was an excellent beta. Where Isaac had been flighty, nervous, and bordering on psychotic, Boyd was calm, cautious, and meticulous. He even did a few crossword puzzle answers while waiting at the counter, and when he said down with Peter he had no questions, only a mildly curious expression. The best thing about Boyd was that his respect for his alpha was absolute.

Actually, the best thing about Boyd was the complete ignorance the Puppeteer had of his existence. So, the respect was the second best thing.

Peter finished stirring the sugar into black coffee and took a sip. "I have a job for you."

Boyd nodded slowly. "What is it?" His voice was deep and solemn.

"A track and capture." Peter wiped his mouth with a napkin. He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a scrap of fabric. It was a piece of a shirt, striped orange and blue. "You did well with that family in Idaho, if I recall correctly."

"They weren't particularly prepared." Boyd wasn't modest. He was pragmatic. No one would have ever thought that in the last year he'd been a werewolf, over twenty murders had been committed by him.

And they never would.

"These two will be." Peter then pulled out two photographs. The first looked like an old school photo. It was from Derek's sophomore year. He wasn't looking at the camera but concentrating hard on the old black guitar he was playing. The other had been stolen from the Stilinski home, and was of Stiles' college graduation. He gestured at both photos. "Alpha 1," he pointed at Derek's youthful face, "and Jarogniew Stilinski, known colloquially as Stiles."

Boyd took another drink of coffee and pulled the photos towards him for a closer look. "Which one am I going after?"

"Stilinski," Peter said immediately. "We're under... orders... not to kill Alpha 1." He cracked his neck, as though irritated by the Puppeteer's intrusion. In truth, he was.

"Where are they?"

Peter pulled out his cellphone this time. He pulled up Google maps and showed a small section of interstate 80 in Wyoming. "If they're still traveling the way I think they're traveling, they're going to be here somewhere around here tonight."

A miniscule frown appeared on Boyd's face. He wouldn't complain, but while it looked small on an iPhone screen, it was an enormous area of the country for one werewolf to cover. He remained silent and finished his coffee. "You're not coming with me, right?"

Peter scoffed and pocketed his phone. "I'm staying here and watching my own prey," he smiled, predatory.

Boyd stood, his car keys dangling from his pocket. "I might be able to find them by tonight, if I drive all day."

"That's my boy." Peter stood too. He clapped Boyd once on the shoulder and his eyes flashed red. "Remember, don't kill Alpha 1. And don't kill Stilinski until you get him here first." He led Boyd to the nondescript car outside. It was currently boxed in by the line for the drive thru, but Boyd could wait. He was patient like that.

"You want me to kill him, though." He was also more perceptive than Isaac had ever been.

Peter laughed suddenly. "Of course I do. Please, try your best. Why my puppy of a nephew was designated Alpha 1 - he's not even an alpha, for God's sakes – I'll never know."

In a surprisingly bold move, Boyd remarked, "I always thought you viewed Mr. Cross as your alpha."

The line behind the cars moved forward, giving them an opening.

"If we weren't in a public place," Peter said calmly, "I would tear out your throat."

Boyd simply raised an eyebrow. He turned his head to the side, exposing a pulsing artery under his skin. Peter growled low in his chest for a moment.

"Find them." And Peter sauntered over to his own car and left in a hurry.

Boyd did find them that night. After driving at breakneck speed all day, at the Wyoming-Nevada border he stopped. He took out the torn shirt from his pocket and inhaled deeply. The scents were fading, but his olfactory senses were better than a bloodhound's. Even though there was a frost on the ground and clouds promising snow, he cranked down his window and began driving slower on the interstate, trying to catch the scent.

He found it late in the evening, sometime after ten. It led him off an exit before a town called Green River. Boyd drove up and down the empty streets for a while until he came to a motel with a glaring neon sign. The scent was much stronger here. A Buick LeSabre parked outside practically reeked of it.

He left his car around a bend in the road and crept up to the window of the motel room. Inside, he heard two erratic heartbeats and muffled groans.

"I think they're having sex." The text gleamed in the darkness before being sent to Peter.

"Interesting."

Boyd waited for a few minutes before another text glared on his phone screen. "What are you waiting for? Take Stilinski."

He broke the door down with a roar, and chaos ensued.