And then she meets Andrew Golem.
He was a senior bodyguard who got pulled out of the classified affairs when he got shot through the leg protecting a diplomat during a meeting with a Korean representative at which certain 'people' interjected - with guns. The damage to his muscle was too severe, and he was pulled and given a job filing.
Andrea found him. He teaches her SCARS (Special Combat Aggressive Reactionary Systems), helping her to seamlessly blend it into her current fighting technique. Sure, his bad leg hinders him some, but he's taught himself to fight around it. That and the fact that he sometimes finds people for her to spar with.
And then she's taken to Russia with a CIA operative who's middle-aged and fat around the middle - a product of a lazy life as a higher-upper. Andrea doesn't want that. She took Political Science to make her grandparents happy, but she doesn't want to sit at a desk and be a paper-pusher.
She likes fighting. She likes the way her body moves, how she can be so sure that the next blow is going to land or bounce off, almost like the entire thing has been choreographed.
But she goes to Russia anyways. She's resigned herself to a slow climb through the CIA and the resulting paperwork.
Russia doesn't go exactly as expected.
They meet with the group in a small cafe, sitting down at a large circular table. Andrea is sent off to go fetch coffee, as if there isn't a waitress right there.
Sighing, she does as told, trying her best to ignore the muttering feminist in the back of her mind.
And then there are new men. With guns and what looks like one hell of a vendetta. Yelling, they subdue the cafe, met with shrieks of terror.
She goes unnoticed. An intern with coffee? Of course they aren't going to notice her.
She smashes her elbow to the back of Mustache Guy's sternum, shoving the point of her heel into the back of his knees, and watching as he buckles to the ground in pain. Then she turns, throwing hot coffee into Broad Shoulders' face, hearing him scream and grinning wickedly at the victory.
Next there's a shot fired at her, and she uses her basic knowledge of guns to let him fire shots at her until he's out of bullets. Curving around one of the three remaining guys, she ignores the way glass cuts into her pantyhose-d feet, having long since abandoned her heels.
She takes them down easily, and once she's done, she's left standing with five guys disabled around her, the CIA operatives and the people they were meeting fairly unscathed save a bullet in someone's shoulder and a bit of cuts and bruises.
There's a man leaning against the doorframe.
He gives the name Mortician.