Twenty-five year old Caol Ila; taste of lemon, perhaps, and a hint of smoke that he couldn't quite be sure didn't just come from the air. He dragged a thumb nail along the label of his cigar.
"She's near perfect." He was going to have to talk to SHIELD about possible adjustments. Maybe they didn't go in for exploding pens any more, but they had to do better than a gun and a radio.